"I'm not famous, but I'm known," wrote a Black Seed writer last week- meaning known in his environment but also, I think, compassed and profoundly comprehended by something greater than himself. How does it feel to be known in this way, known right through? Who understands us, in the abyss of our being? Into whom do we fall when the props of our identity, which is to say our separateness, are removed? These are questions- let's get heavy here- that bear on the act of writing itself. One writes, after all, to be known. To be got. This is the hope of it: that at the limits of the self there is recognition, even welcome. "Deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls," says the psalmist. From one abyss to another, across a universal tumult. Are you receiving? Do you read me?
May's Pilgrim is ferocious and many-voiced. Henry defuses a combatanat; Ned remembers an old friend; Diana takes the psychological measure of her surroundings; Steve suffers multiple aggravations; Phil calls down justice; Ady considers the balance of light and dark, in lines of which St. John of the Cross might have been proud; Frank jams the waveband of the ordinary; and Bryant, at dawn, rises aching to his feet.
We welcome to our pages Courtney, Spider, Sean and Jennifer. JWP