Right now I'm trying to think of something poetic to say as an editor after a gentleman backed into her car. Don't get me wrong, it’s not the money, it’s the fact I have always driven with great care and taken responsibility for my actions.
I was so frazzled looking at the big dent in the back of my car, for once in my life, I was unable to think. And he neatly jumped in his old 4X4 and drove away with his $10.00 broken tail light.
Now I'm left furiously trying to think up words that rhyme with WANKER—words an elegant lady would never utter even if she did understand their meanings in French!
If only I could compose myself! I might even get published one day in a motor digest!
An incurable itch for scribbling takes possession of many, and grows inveterate in their insane breasts. ~Juvenal, Satires
It’s been a wild four months reviewing all of the incredible short stories people have sent in. Thank goodness for that incurable itch all you authors have! I only regret that we can’t print them all. We’re so lucky to have such wonderful and dedicated contributors. In this issue, Sahar Delijani takes us to Lecce, Italy; Robert Earle, to the Land of Zim. We explore immortality with Elizabeth Holden; and the pain of being between worlds with Nahid Rachlin. We have an up and coming young writer in Sarah Smith who inspires us all.
I’m very excited about this issue. Marge Piercy is one of my favorite poets and authors. Her insight into human behavior, women and men and their competing needs for independence and interdependence and the importance of gender and class in our lives infuses her stories and poems – which are just plain hard to put down. Michael Vander Does is a trombone playing jazz poet, whose work always electrifies me and sends me to Google to go deeper into his images. It was a real joy for me to be introduced to Edward Bruce Bynum and his calm, deep and thoughtful poetry. And as always, Mia’s design is exquisite. Thank you for the hours and hours you devote to every issue, making Tryst a visual feast, as well as a banquet of words.
Poor Joan. It's Autumn. <Sigh> I am always at a loss for words this time of year: I am more acutely aware of time passing with the sunlight waning, swift leaves falling, my Canadian geese leaving for warmer climes—I worry about them as they head for the Mississippi Flyway. But it is also my favorite time of year and I hold onto the things I can: words and their memories. They have brought me here to you. You are Werner Bischof whose photography caught me in its fierce grip, eight years ago, and would not let go. (Thank you, Marco, for granting me permission to feature your father's work). You are Cecilia Ferreira whose photography and art captured my imagination and admiration for having the vision to put to canvas your raw passion.
You are David Wevill whose enduring words and warm friendship have left lasting impressions upon my soul and seared my heart. You are Pat Carlson who generously loaned your music for this issue under threat of my camping out on your doorstep until you gave in. You are Wizard Marks, my newfound friend, who was reticent about sharing your work until convinced otherwise. Thank you, everyone for once again believing in Tryst to submit your best work and most of all, thank you for believing in yourself.
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