Notes from the Editor's Desk -- 8/25/22
Black walnuts, suitable for making ink, fall on the far side of the bog. The boardwalk, across which lies the grove, is a familiar subject of my provincialism, its traversal a seasonal rite of passage. The earth below it flows never, and because no run of water tyrannically holds sway, its stages, made varied by virtue of stagnation, are manifest. Wet and festering, or dry and barren, dry and green, or wet and host to tadpoles and water fowls, the bog is changeable in its nature. Encounters with these variations create rather a flow of experience, and experience pores over the continuous forms of shrubbery, or else fills in the voids of the cracked mud. Today, greenery, tended to by deer that surfaced from its depths and heights, grew out of land that looked like it could no longer, or not much longer, sustain such verdure. Robert Kennicott stalked these tracts with glass and snake bag to collect and catalog its specimens. It seemed impossible to me that the area would produce any found characters of literary scope, but there you have it. Despite being native to this area, to its ways, scenes, people and nature, it is often only by way of return that we come to enjoy the spark of inspiration that results of saturation. Anywhere, and any life, in all reality, will do.
An ancient turtle treats me with the same indifference today as it did my youngest self. The Prisoner by Pushkin, which Q— recited in Russian, describes a captive eagle’s remarks to a prisoner, and this turtle feels much the same to me. Its slow movements advise me. Its indifference does the same. Moss grows upon his ancient, massive shell and about his face, as it does in the crook of his neck. And today I noticed, for the first time, that it is missing the claws on its left hind leg. Presence of mind is what he encourages me to keep. There is always a greater entirety than the mind can conceive of and that the mind elides. I mourn no part of this experience, nothing of unrealized ambition, nor of unprofitable ventures, save for a failure, at present, to notice. If I return, perhaps jacketed in decrepitude, the turtle much the same, what a mockery of me it would maintain for failing to heed its tutelage. It would not care to sum my monies, nor to estimate the value of my connections, but only the need to break the surface from time to time and return to the depths would divert his watchful purpose. Well might I return the favor he paid me, casting a stool through the glass between us, and ride upon its shell through the doors of the visitors center, bound for parts unknown, the better part of burden given over to the discretion of my ancient.
Мы вольные птицы—пора, брат, пора!
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