"This one is not to be missed, featuring fiction by CATHERINE AVERILL, ALLEN MOZEK, and CALEB NOLEN, comics by JACOB MAZER, BECK LEVY, and ENOKI, criticism by CHRISTOPHER SCHAEFFER, and art by CAITLIN SHERWOOD.
Eighty-eight pages of travesty, catastrophe, calamity, barbarism, kink, dismemberment, mysterious eggs, bleeding hosts, post cards, poppies, roadkill, architecture, sacrilege, stoner metal, trauma, theology, and unmuzzled, unadulterated literature and art!”
Beast of Burden 50 Miler, January 18 (Lockport, NY)
Finish Time: 9:39:45, 6th place overall
Caesar Rodney Half Marathon, March 23 (Wilmington, DE)
50 Shades of Sore 50k, April 12 (Philadelphia, PA)
Indiana Trail 100, April 26-27 (Albion, IN)
Massanutten Mountain Trails 100, Solo Divison, May 17-18 (Fort Valley, VA)
1/2 Sauer 1/2 Kraut Marathon, June 14 (Philadelphia, PA)
Vol-State Road Race, Screwed Division , July 10-20 (Dorena Landing, MO to Castle Rock, GA by way of TN)
The Barkley Fall Classic, September 20 (Wartburg, TN)
(for Henry Averell Gerry, 1941-60)
I hardly know how to speak to you now,
you are so young now, closer to my daughter’s age
than mine—but I have been there and seen it, and must
tell you, as the seeing and hearing
spell the world into the deaf-mute’s hand.
The tiny dormer windows like the ears of a fox, like the
long row of teats on a pig, still
perk up over the Square, though they’re digging up the
street now, as if digging a grave,
the shovels shrieking on stone like your car
sliding along on its roof after the crash.
How I wanted everyone to die if you had to die,
how sealed into my own world I was,
deaf and blind. What can I tell you now,
now that I know so much and you are a
freshman still, drinking a quart of orange juice and
playing three sets of tennis to cure a hangover, such an
ardent student of the grown-ups! I can tell you
we were right, our bodies were right, life was
really going to be that good, that
pleasurable in every cell.
Suddenly I remember the exact look of your body, but
better than the bright corners of your eyes, or the
light of your face, the rich Long Island
puppy-fat of your thighs, or the slick
chino of your pants bright in the corners of my eyes, I
remember your extraordinary act of courage in
loving me, something no one but the
blind and halt had done before. You were
fearless, you could drive after a sleepless night
just like a grown-up, and not be afraid, you could
fall asleep at the wheel easily and
never know it, each blond hair of your head—and they were
thickly laid—put out like a filament of light,
twenty years ago. The Charles still
slides by with that ease that made me bitter when I
wanted all things hard as your death was hard,
wanted all things broken and rigid as the
bricks in the sidewalk or your love for me
stopped cell by cell in your young body.
Ave—I went ahead and had the children,
the life of ease and faithfulness, that
palm and the breast, every millimeter of delight in the body,
I took the road we stood on at the start together, I
took it all without you as if
in taking it after all I could most
zine || read || zip ]
I want to see things as they are
without me. Why, I don’t know.
As a kid I always looked
at roadkill close up, and poked
a stick into it. I want to look at death
with eyes like my own baby eyes,
not yet blinded by the knowledge.
I told this to my friend the monk,
and he said, Want, want, want.
The wild card. The unpredictable wild card that never comes when it should. Had it fallen, years earlier, what would have happened to me? I looked at my palms trying to see the other life, the parallel life. The point at which my selves broke away and one married a fat man and the other stayed here, in this elegant house to eat dinner night after night from an oval table.
Is this the explanation then when we meet someone we do not know and feel straight away that we have always known them? That their habits will not be a surprise. Perhaps our lives spread out around us like a fan and we can only know one life, but by mistake sense others.
When I met her I felt she was my destiny and that feeling has not altered, even though it remains invisible. Though I have taken myself to the wastes of the world and loved again, I cannot truly say that I ever left her. Sometimes, drinking coffee with friends or walking alone by the too salt sea, I have caught myself in that other life, touched it, seen it to be as real as my own. And if she had lived alone in that elegant house when I first met her? Perhaps I would never have sensed other lives of mine, having no need of them.
“Will you stay?” she said.
No, not in this life. Not now. Passion will not be commanded. It is no genie to grant us three wishes when we let it loose. It commands us and very rarely in the way we would choose.
I was angry. Whoever it is you fall in love with for the first time, not just love but be in love with, is the one who will always make you angry, the one you can’t be logical about. It may be that you are settled in another place, it may be that you are happy, but the one who took your heart wields final power.
I was angry because she had wanted me and made me want her and had been afraid to accept what that meant; it meant more than brief meetings in public places and nights borrowed from someone else. Passion will work in the fields for seven years for the beloved and on being cheated work for seven more, but passion, because it is noble, will not accept another’s left-overs.
I have had affairs. I will have more, but passion is for the single-minded.
She said again, “Will you stay?”
One more night. How tempting. How innocent. I could stay tonight surely? What difference could it make, one more night? No. If I smell her skin, find the mute curves of her nakedness, she will reach in her hand and withdraw my heart like a bird’s egg. I have not had time to cover my heart in barnacles to elude her. If I give in to this passion, my real life, the most solid, the best known, will disappear and I will feed on shadows again like those sad spirits whom Orpheus fled.
[from Jeanette Winterson’s The Passion]