A didactic poem (to teach)

I welcome sleep with sounds of thunder
Finally, like going under a bridge
of seconds, sevenths, and roiling water
Leading to visions of chthonic marauders

Here, tonight, an image lost
when I open my eyes, but still, I crossed
that bridge, at least for a time
and found again

A place that lives behind facades,
with no concession for lies or mirage,
that only exists on thunderous nights,
where phantoms scurry to the edge of the light,

and directions are posted on signs, but might
not direct you in the way you expect,
but lead you to where your actions go
not to your thoughts, or intentions,
so

There can be no deception between in or out.
Unwilful obeying is still, then, to flout.
There can be no deception between out or in.
A sin rationalized is twice a sin.

What journey I traveled while lying still
has faded most, but left me to tell:

Do not go where you are beckoned
If only to appease the beckoner
As if it had any need of you;
as it to reckon were for the reckoner.

Shantih, shantih, shantih...peace, peace, peace. Peace.
New York City, where is your horizon?

The best view of the city is from roofs.
Watching people kiss on fire escapes
The horizon, a jagged, broken, line.

There is broken glass all over Brooklyn
Like something once whole was dropped to the ground

Above ground, buildings rise up like giants
Trying to get their own piece of the sky
Spreading wings like shadows across the ground

Across town, people live high up, up enough
Not to see the ground, but to see the sunrise

Below ground, people squirm, and crawl, like worms
Trying to get their own piece of the earth.
Shantih, shantih, shantih. Peace, peace, peace....peace.

Two tritinas

I.
We fall asleep in a bath of orange
street lamp. The curtains never fully close.
all our windows are made of broken glass

at night we try to sleep, but when we close
our eyes, we still see images of glass
menageries, and windows, and orange

spice tea, with nutmeg, served in a wine glass
reflecting back the lamp, glass, and orange
bath, through eyelids which never fully close.

II.
Shine, then break, then dispersing, inverted
suspended like gems in midair, midair
fragments, blue and undulating diamonds

drift slowly upward, then become air
these, stars that fell from night, like diamonds
If the earth and sea itself inverted

These airy, these broken, these starry diamonds
fallen from grace, our bodies inverted
break and scatter, if you come up for air

20 Edgerton Street

Holly and I finally found an apartment. It was perfect. It had hardwood floors and high ceilings, window seats, a clawfoot tub, a porch, and huge rooms, the living/dining room even being big enough for my spinet piano. The kitchen was tiny, though, which everyone commented on. Personally, I liked its exact symmetry with the bathroom. I thought it was economical, and indicative of how bodies should be. Holly said we’d learn to cook anyway and have big Sunday dinners, but we didn’t.

Despite how fucking cool the apartment was, I was still a little nervous about getting my own place, especially when I thought about things like Vaporub. Was I supposed to just go out and get some, to have it on hand for when I needed it? Or would Holly go get it for me if I was congested? Is Vaporub still around? Is it expensive? Does it even work?

We moved in in the beginning of October. I wanted my bedroom to look how Shpongle sounded. I put the Klipshes in first and turned the bass up, then nailed swaths of African batik around the walls. My bed had a purple Mexican afghan for a comforter and jutted out diagonally from the corner, and a red star lamp hanging above it. I lit incense and candles and put plants on the window seats.

I was fixated on the idea that I would stop being nervous once the piano settled into its place in our giant living room. My friend Kristin and I had been using my parents’ minivan to cart stuff over, so the piano was still at their place. The plan was to just wait for them to come home, when they said they’d help with it, but that was two weeks away. It became imperative that I get the piano before then. I did some research while sitting at my horrifically boring desk job: piano movers are expensive.

As happens sometimes, I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything except getting the piano before my parents came home. I inventoried, and these were the things at my disposal: about fifty dollars, Kristin, Holly (sporadically), my parents’ minivan, and the phone number of Tom, a fellow coworker, who was a very nice and very large man who had offered the services of himself and his truck, Sylvia, for any moving needs I might have.

Feeling desperate one boring day at my desk I started texting all the guys I knew. Could you help me move a piano? I have one guy, myself, two females, and a truck. And beer. Thanks. A few people wrote back saying they’d be glad to help. I confirmed with Tom. It was all set for that weekend, moving the piano. One by one, everyone but Tom and Holly backed out. But so it was set: the three of us would drive Sylvia from Edgerton Street out to the boondocks I used to call home, collect the piano, and bring it back. Then I could relax.
When Tom saw the piano, he said, ‘Wait. This is what you want me to move?’
My heart sank. ‘Well, yeah. We talked about this, remember? It’s a piano.’ I didn’t mean to be rude, but I needed to move that piano.

Tom was dubious. Holly was tiny. ‘I can help,’ she said redundantly. ‘We’ll try,’ said Tom. We all bent down and tried to push the piano toward the door. It moved about an inch, which was a bad sign, because it was on wheels. ‘I don’t know about this,’ said Tom.

‘One more try,’ I said. We tried again.

I felt horrible, both for myself and for bringing Tom and Sylvia out here, an hour roundtrip, for no reason. To save face I invented some other possessions I needed from the house. I felt like crying.

The ride back was awkward, because I was depressed, and Holly kept saying things like ‘I don’t know why you thought we could lift a piano, anyway,’ which made me hate her. Tom was nice about it.

I lay in my diagonal Shpongle bed that night, wondering if I had made the right decision. Was it a good idea to move in to my own place, which, granted, was only $375 a month, but when I could be saving that money by living at home, where there was already Vaporub and a piano? Sure, I wouldn’t have as much freedom, but I was twenty one; my parents couldn’t be that overbearing. Was that worth $375 a month? I had no idea at the time how monstrously cheap that was; it seemed like a dizzying splurge, and I felt overwhelmed with my own selfishness.

Oh well. At home I didn't have a Shpongle room, I thought, as I stared up at the chiffon draped under the ceiling light and listened to ‘Tales of the Inexpressible.’ Nor could I play piano at all hours of the night, which I was sure I would do here, as soon as I possibly could. I had never done that before, stayed up till morning writing and practicing songs, but I was confident I would here on Edgerton Street.

In the end I had to wait till my parents got home. They hired movers for me as a birthday present, and we got the piano into its place in the glorious living room without a hitch. I tried to give Tom a six pack of Yuengling for helping me but it turned out he doesn’t drink.

Two men walked down a prison corridor, when another man in plain clothes approached and walked with them. They knew he was an undercover cop, so they ignored all his provocations. At the end of the hallway they still had not given in, so the cop turned and arrested one of them. A scuffle ensued, and in the chaos one of the men began calling the cop by the accused man's name, thus incriminating him. The crowd caught on, having no way to identify the cop, and having the two men's word against one. Correctional officers arrived and arrested the cop in the other man's name, and he was sentenced to life in prison.

Five years later, "Any inconsistency in your story only serves to weaken your case and confuse the jury," said a voice that was clearly well-versed in court proceedings. The cop's cell door closed, and the speaker turned out to be the man who had originally caused the mix-up. He had become a police officer, and now was in a place of power over the unfortunate cop. Outside the cell in the hallway, he burst into tears.

Didn't anyone notice that one man was black and the other white? Should anyone who did, speak up, or risk spending their own life behind bars?

As I drove home from work after class I thought about how if I were to slide between dimensions, possibly by dying, presumably my senses would be the first thing to go. If that’s true, though, it seems odd that I think of art as transcendent, as in, able to reach other planes of reality. Maybe art is the senses’ approach to finding truth, not truth itself. If that’s true, and even the best art disappears when our senses dissolve, the truth that it was pointing toward might remain, because truth is not contingent on your perception.

The other thing I thought before I turned onto my street was that that means you can’t hang onto pieces of art as you transition, like you can’t hang onto coins you earn from level to the next in a video game. When you ‘graduate’ or shift or slide to another level or dimension, while it would be wonderful to be able to carry something with you, like your favorite book or melody, in all likelihood you can’t. Art is transient, and because it is dependent on the senses, it cannot survive the transition. So you better hope that your understanding of it is strong enough to, because that might be all you get.

I turned this in to my philosophy professor as a response to the reading we were supposed to do on David Hume. I didn’t read it, so I don’t know how relevant my input was, but I was banking on him being sufficiently moved to give me an A anyway.

‘The paper was supposed to be ten pages long,’ he said, staring at my measly one page on his desk during office hours the next day. He frowned at it through it his enormous glasses. ‘And on the fallacies in Hume’s critique of the argument from design.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, truly remorseful.

‘However, I’m willing to make an exception,’ he went on, ‘If you can parse out what you handed in to me into a valid argument, by Monday, I’ll accept it.’ He steepled his fingers under his chin.

As I closed the door behind me I heard him mutter ‘And please read the critique.’

This was excellent news. I now had the choice between two papers to write, which meant one must be worth doing. Having only till Friday, I sat down that night with every intention to complete at least one.

The Five Burroughs

You know how when you remember part of your childhood, or something that happened a long time ago, the parts of that memory all seem to bleed together, as if they weren't discrete sections that you experienced separately, but one big mix of stuff? (Do other people feel that way?)

I love that feeling, and I think I try to dive into it when I write something.

Last night Johnny told us a good name for a band he'd thought of: The Five Burroughs. (As in, spelled like William S. Burroughs.) I said it sounded like a punk band, and he said he'd probably never change his band name from Secret Cove, so it didn't matter anyway, and I said he could use it in the book he's writing. That is another thing I love about writing: if you think of something awesome that you won't do, but might have done in another life, then you can imagine the world you'd want it to happen in, and create it.

Someday, looking back, my whole life will be a big amorphous flowing memory of all the things I did - maybe, far enough away, I won't remember whether I lived in NYC before South Bend, or if I went to Ghana or only imagined going to Ghana. And I think that in that mix will be all the things I wrote about. Maybe they'll even be as real as things that really happened. So for that reason, I owe it to myself to right great things, and to write a lot of them, and to write them well.

Hey friends,

Check out my story 'Fever Dream,' now online at PANK Magazine -

http://www.pankmagazine.com/fever-dream/

Cheers!

[new music][secret cove]

I checked out, and caught a ride
Flew into an interesting time

('Alice,' by Secret Cove)
(Check them out here: http://secretcove.bandcamp.com/)

Didn’t they know there was a cemetery there before they started digging?

I wonder how they knew it was a slave cemetery. Was it a name on a headstone? Did they know it was there before they started digging, and no one said anything about it until they actually found it?

* * *

I suppose it was a rather idyllic scenario, a fancy restaurant next to the beach, rolling waves and attractive people walking around, but for us, there was something eerie going on. Part of it had to do with the way we were able to go from the restaurant to the beach without a problem, even if we were soaking wet and as salty as the rims of our margarita glasses. And the people who were walking around—that seemed to be all they were doing, walking around. Even the man with the gray beard, who didn’t look much older than us. He was really, really attractive, and Evan thought so too. He was walking around farther away from the restaurant and the beach; if it weren’t for him, I might not have known there was a town nearby. He seemed to be staying away from the waiters. He didn’t avoid us.

It was clear that he was selling weed. No one else seemed to know what he was doing. I think that’s why he was staying away from the others but he didn’t mind approaching us. At one point he told us that we could get one eighth for cheap but two for half that. Buying in bulk is always better, he said. I knew that. Before we bought any we went swimming. While we were crashing around in the waves, it occurred to me that at that logic, why didn’t we buy three for a third of the price? Or ten for a tenth? It was obvious: the more we bought, the less we spent, so why not buy everything? It should be free, I reasoned, or close to.

 * * *

I’m a little apprehensive about being alone with Bianca. She hasn’t brought up the living situation yet but she keeps hinting at something, and she acts like she wants to talk but won’t bring up the subject. For instance, she walked me to my car the other day and kept saying pointless things as I looked for my keys and opened the door. But then she let me go.

It’s her turn to bring it up, or it would be if we were playing tennis, seeing as I sent the email outlining my opinion and basically inveighing her for picking an apartment I hate (after I signed the lease, of course) and she hasn’t said anything about it yet. I would bring it up but I’m afraid she’s going to say she doesn’t care and isn’t going to look for someone to sublet. But I need to start looking for my own place, if she’ll let me. The good ones will be gone soon.

 * * *

         
What was even stranger about the disturbing headline was that it was completely out of context; it referenced “Manhattan” as casually as one would expect, so I knew that I was somewhere where New York was a standard measurement of place. I didn’t like how it said “they” the way someone who spices up their conversation with clichés does. Don’t they teach you not to use vague pronouns as authoritative figures?

I went back to the newspaper stand to read the rest, after I realized I was more curious than I cared to admit, but I couldn’t find my way back. It was near, I remembered, where we met the gray-bearded man. It was a red box that asked for a quarter in exchange for the daily newspaper. A square red box about waist-high, like a little pet. It was the only red thing around, except the restaurant’s carpet, which, now that I think about it, extended out to the patio.

Of course, being thwarted in my search for the rest of the newspaper article, in addition to being mildly annoying, only enflamed my curiosity.

 I don’t know where Bianca was during all this. Hopefully she was at her wretched new apartment, learning to love to be alone so she wouldn’t want me to move in.

I took my friend Avery to the art museum to look at paintings on his day off. I think he enjoyed himself, but it was hard to tell if we were looking at the same things.

'Look at this texture,' he said at one stop, admiring from behind the velvet rope the frame around a painting. 'It's exquisite.'

'No, it's plastic,' I said, and tried to explain where the real art was.

He tried to like the painting, I could tell, but his eyes kept sliding away, this time down to the velvet rope itself.

'It's beautiful!' he cried, stroking the velvet and watching it change colors as he went with and then against the grain. 'How does anyone make something like this?'

I had to admit, I had no more idea if how to make velvet than how to paint a painting.

In the gift shop, we both picked out a few postcards to send home. I think he only bought them to please me, because as we walked out, he gave them to me, then carefully smoothed the bag they came in, folded it, and placed it in his wallet for safekeeping.

One night I dreamt that trains were free to roam anywhere the wind took them, like people, no longer bound to their tracks. Some trains decided they want to live on the second story, in someone's attic. Some realized they had always wanted to be fireplaces, and came crashing down people's chimneys. Others learned to be cars, and some began going to church every Sunday, and then meeting afterward at a diner for coffee.

Needless to say, everything was ruined, because trains are large and very destructive. Everywhere there were fires and debris and stranded travellers and horrible accidents.

I woke up almost crying, so relieved that trains, indeed, stay on their tracks.

Five-year-old Thomas was terrified that at night, when his parents went to bed, a gigantic fox came out of hiding and sat next to the city, keeping watch.

In his mind the fox was as big as the city itself, and had no qualms about eating everyone and everything in it.

'Then why doesn't it?' asked Thomas's father. 'Eat the whole city, I mean.'

He doesn't want to, Thomas answered. He doesn't like the taste of people.

'So why are you scared?' asked his mother.

Because he still could, said Thomas.

'Where is the fox now?' they asked.

I don't know. I can't see him.

'You can't?'

No. He's invisible.

'So what makes you think he's there?'

Thomas could not answer this, but he also could not sleep. His parents soon learned that it is impossilbe to disprove the existence of a giant, invisible, harmless fox to a five-year-old.

Types of Phones

1. Some phones are asymmetrical, like old couches or broken things. To dial, you have to keep your hand to the far right, where the buttons are.

Use this phone to call people you don't know very well, or when you're calling someone you do know but aren't sure how long you'll talk to them.

2. Some phones are red. These are the most polarizing kinds of phones, because they are either bright and cheery or bloodlike and scary. Either way, they'll add a bit of red to the room.

Call your relatives on this phone. They'll thank you for it.

3. Some phones are off the hook. This is when they are being used, or on an uneven surface. If you are already using this phone, carry on. If not, stay away.

4. Some phones have both straight and curved lines. On this phone, feel free to call your spouse or lover, just to say hello.

5. Some phones are very strange. Take this one, for example: olive green, and longer than it is tall, with a cross-hatching pattern on the front. Use this phone for emergencies only: you never know who, or what, you will call.

The Feathered Man

Through the crowd I saw a flash of purple; it streaked toward the door, through a curtained threshold and over the stage before it disappeared. Around me the dancers danced in black and white; feathered masks covered their eyes, and I saw no one I recognized. Under a lamp the record player skipped.

I followed; as I broke out of the crowd the door swung shut. Down the hall I was directed to the roof, where the air was still. ‘Where is she?’ I called out; above, the sky was a black dome with a single pinprick instead of stars.

‘There’s been no one out here all night,’ said a man in a bird mask, standing next to two women by the edge. In their hands they held cigarettes and glasses of red liquid.

What kind of place is this? Is there is a world below the roof’s edge, or are these feathered few all that’s left?

Artist's Statement, by Jessi Muhr

(draft 1)
Twelve years I had my first piece accepted for showing at a quasi-local gallery, Studio 29, on the Lower East Side. It’s kind of a funny story, but I don’t feel like telling it right now. Suffice to say, it formed my rather bitter opinion of exhibits, and made me

(draft 2)

As a modern day woman I often feel the need to instill my identity into every piece of art I create, as if it is so fragile and wispy that if I don’t preserve it on canvas it will be whisked away in the next passing breeze.

(draft 3)

On second thought, this may make me sound ignorant and ungrateful to all the suffragettes and feminists who came before me, but being a woman doesn’t much affect my understanding of myself, because it’s not like I have anything to compare it to. Anything I feel or think or make could just as easily be attributed to my being white, or born in the eighties, or from New Jersey. It’s true that most of my work involves some variation on the female figure, and often is impressionistic enough to suggest some kind of identity crisis or reflection, but that’s for art history students or critics to find and exploit, not me, and definitely not in my artist’s statement.

 (draft 4)

Shit.

(draft 5)
When I was 15 I entered and won my first art contest, resulting in my painting “Untitled/Mirrors” being featured at Studio 29’s ‘Young Artists’ exhibit, which, logically, was my first step in a ‘career,’ if I may be so bold, as an artist. The painting was, according to someone’s review, an exploration of the concept of infinity mirrors—that is, two mirrors facing one another, thus reflecting back infinitely. Its description is a lot more elegant than the content. Frankly, it looks like a kindergartener painted it. I did it that way on purpose, with some silly sophomoric notion that its crudeness in technique would offset its lofty goal, which for some reason seemed necessary, or maybe just cerebral enough to make me want it to be necessary. Anyway I’ve always tried to paint things that no one can see, even before I had a really cohesive aesthetic. Those were the days when I still liked to paint with the intent of making fun of the artists we studied in class, like cubists. I thought that so much of their work looked like a joke and required so little talent that I could do it too, and I did, filled with the kind of self-righteous irony that made me feel superior. About this painting in particular I also had the idea that since no one can look straight into infinity mirrors without seeing themselves in them, then no one could know what they (infinity mirrors) look like (with no one in them), so any way I painted them I would maintain the illusion of some kind of authority. So, “Untitled/Mirrors” was born out of this adolescent self-important cynicism: ‘I can paint something good and not because I feel moved by the spirit to, but because I’m smart enough to.’

And you can take that to the bank. That’s something I’ve never told anyone that, let alone handed it in for publication. After I painted it, I half-expected my teacher to give me detention for so blatantly making fun of her lecture. Instead she entreated me to send it in to this competition in the city that offered $100, a spot at Studio 29, and a master class with some CUNY professor as a prize.

Like I said, that began my trajectory, by introducing me to the world of galleries and criticism and art degrees. Most importantly, it gave me the confidence to start showing people things that were way more personal to me, work that I spent years on, not just study hall. It felt good, to step out of my shell, to let myself feel something emotional about my art, to replace sarcasm with sincerity. And here I am now, guesting in a coffee table book, apparently successful enough to be considered one of Chicago’s emerging women artists. What have I learned from all this? Maybe that I’ve only won a couple contests since that one, but never for any piece that I cared about.

This is mostly irrelevant and self-indulgent and will probably be edited out anyway. Feel free to make me sound smarter/snappier/funnier/something-ier. I suppose I’m honored that someone values my opinion enough to ask for it in writing, but on the flip side of that coin, I’ve expressed myself as best I can through my painting, so my writing is superfluous. But alas, artist’s statements must be in writing.

I suppose the purpose of an artist’s statement is to give the reader a personal lens through which to view the artist’s work. People like having lenses through which to view things, especially abstract art. I can see why I might be expected to offer the lens of womanhood, given the theme of this book, but the truth is I don’t ever think about that. I do, however, think a lot about the anger and the resentment that fueled the start of my career, about the master class I earned with my vindictiveness, about how the paintings I care most about have never left my studio.

 insert something witty and profound and summational

Post-haste!

Well. I have begun to work on Chimneys, which for so long I have confidently called my novel, again. I hesitate to call it that now. Of course I want to, but I think that can be damaging on asubconscious level. Being intimidating and self-serving and all that. Or maybe, I just didn't have a clear idea of what it would look like, trajectory-wise, so I was intimidated. Anyway, either way, tonight I actually came up with an outline. Complete with cause and effect, and a climax, and everything! I think this is a good first step. I plan to use a lot of old Chimneys in it; I think of this new thing as a remodeled, reshaped, rethought version, that is new, yet made out of things that have been stewing in my head and in my recycle bin for years now.

To be honest, I wish I could say something like 'In spite of myself I'm quite excited to start,' but I can't, because I'm nervous, not excited, and I'm afraid I'll keep putting it off. I don't want to. Should I reread what I have so far and then start? Probably not. I should start from scratch. And what better time than now is there to start?

Tomorrow, of course.

Begin with an unfamiliar sound

In the other room I hear a noise, a sound like metal creaking, above the whir of the fan. I go out into the hallway to investigate. The light’s on in the kitchen. Someone is baking; they would have woken me up if I’d been asleep.

            I stand in the doorway and squint at Charlie, who is wiping down the counter. When he sees me he is not concerned that he might have woken me.

            I’m making oatmeal raisin cookies, he says, throwing the rag onto the microwave. He picks up a mug of something hot and stands in the crook of the counter. I need to know what they smell like.

            The coffee maker gargles. He wants me to ask why he needs to know what oatmeal raisin cookies smell like, but I don’t like being hinted at, so I open the fridge and start poking around instead.

            He is undeterred. I’m in a student film, he tells me. I mean, an indie film.

            Who’s film? I ask, selecting the mint Haagen Daz from the freezer.

            Jon’s. Our old roommate. I play a blind man who sustains a terrible head injury in a car crash, and the smell of oatmeal raisin cookies is supposed to remind me of my childhood. Like, wake me up out of a head funk. Because my dear old ma used to make them, or something.

            This is an absurd plot, and I tell him so.

            Here’s the twist, he says. It doesn’t. The smell, I mean. The smell doesn’t wake me out of being amnesiac. You’d think it would, plot-wise, but it doesn’t.

            Aren’t student films usually more subtle than that? I ask. Like, more cerebral?

            Well, he says, it’s complicated. It’s a story within a story. The blind man, me, is a figment of another character’s imagination. The real part of the film is about a professor who’s having marital trouble. He suspects that his wife is secretly in love with his sister, so he sets a trap to see who she really loves, that night at a cocktail party he’s hosting.

            What’s the trap?

            Well, it doesn’t get that far, because first he has a class to teach. So he’s all tense and worried when he gets on the bus with his students. They’re going on a field trip to a museum.

            I see. Then what? Is the wife there with the sister?        

            No, on the way into the museum one student accidentally falls and hits his head.

            And sustains…

            And sustains a terrible head injury, Charlie finishes for me. Although not as bad as you might think. Knowing about the blind man, that is. The student has to go to the hospital in an ambulance, and a couple classmates go with him, but he doesn’t lose his memory. I don’t think he even loses consciousness.

            So where does the blind man and his amnesia come in?

            In the waiting room. The classmates are bored, so they start telling each other stories to pass the time.

            Like the Canterbury Tales.

            I guess so. But there’s only one.

            So why the blind man, again?

            Well, you know how framework narratives are usually all preachy and moralistic? Like, the inner story is a metaphor for the outer one, and it’s all neat and tidy at the end, and you’re supposed to come away with a lesson, like it taught you something? Well, this is a commentary on that. Because I hate films that do that. And so does Jon.

            So you never find out if the wife is in love with the sister.

            Nope. It’s a whole different approach to literary theory.

            Now I would have weird dreams. I always have weird dreams when Charlie is the last person I talk to before I go to sleep.
            I put the ice cream away, deciding I won’t brush my teeth again because it was mint-flavored. That’s great, Charlie, I say, wishing I hadn’t gotten out of bed.

Dear readers,

The strange thing about writing a letter is that you can’t use filler phrases like ‘how are you’ and ‘swell weather we’re having tonight’ to take up air space. A letter has to be all content. That said, I find myself struggling to articulate why I sat down to write this in the first place—and so my mind turns to fluff, possibly in an effort to make me feel productive, and to trick me into thinking I’m using my time wisely, when really I’m just avoiding the real issue. Although, now I realize I’ve done exactly that without the benefit of pretending I didn’t realize I was doing it.

Let me start over. Another strange thing about letter-writing is I feel I have a lot to live up to. Some writers are more famous for their correspondence than their poetry or fiction. You read those letters in English class and dissect them like they were meant for English lessons, not someone’s brother or friend or lover. Those letters are all filled with profound thoughts on life—‘dear you,’ they say, ‘this is what I’ve learned since we last spoke. Thank goodness I have a friend like you who understands, even though so much of my writing is about loneliness.’ Personally, I’m not that close with anyone, nor have I ever felt compelled to write a letter and nor have I ever received a letter of that caliber. Maybe this is turning into one. If that’s true, then you readers are my close but distant friend who is tracking my personal progress from afar, to whom I turn when I have heavy things pressing down on me that can only be lifted by writing them down. That might not be too far off the mark.

It does help to write to an imagined audience—nothing personal, I know if you’re reading this you’re very real—who’s interested in my feelings, not my fiction. I do feel like you’re listening. Strange—this is the first time in years I’ve been able to write what I mean to say. My mind feels unified. Giving voice to confusion is calming. It’s like stepping back and letting the id take the pen, and doing so quiets it, while for years my ego has been struggling to take the reins, and only producing the most insufferable, vapid, tenuous storyline, with no relation to my world or my feelings, which begins the cycle of my feeling disconnected and fraudulent, which makes the subsequent writing worse. Anyway, thank you.

I suppose I should get to the point, even though by doing so I’m nearing the end of this meditative state I’ve found. My reason for writing at all is to tell you I’m going on a hiatus, both from writing fiction and editing the magazine.

Funny, as soon as I mention the magazine, my mind goes blank. I’d much rather stay here in this letter and continue talking to you as if you’re still reading, which may be presumptuous of me to imagine you still are. My mind is calmer when I’m not expected to do anything about the magazine. It is as if it stirs in me a whirlpool of confusion and stress, which blinds and impairs me. Which is why I’m leaving, temporarily, I hope. I do anticipate coming back, but who knows what will happen? Somehow I feel encouraged right now, knowing that I don’t have to choose between writing and sanity. I once thought all writing that mattered was fiction. Maybe this is why the Romantics were so in love with their letter-writing. For someone who is only good at writing, but no longer able to produce fiction, it’s not a bad option.

Gratefully,

Walter S.

appreciate not fear each other

It was hot out.

'You are gorgeous,' said the man playing banjo on his porch; I went over and talked to him about the role of fog in sunsets, and then later I went home and slept well.