The first task of a writer is to make friends with chaos – with the kind of chaos, that is, that precedes the word, the lift of language, the movement of the hand across the page. Germinal chaos, whooshing and floundering and sighing, a formless potentiality awaiting the breath of the spirit. Not a comfortable place. It can’t be controlled. It feels like the purest confusion. But you’ve got to get used to it; you’ve got to learn to sit with it, sit in it, amiably and expectantly. At a certain point it becomes a matter of stamina – of just hanging in there. And then, at the very moment you’re about to fall off your chair, it happens: the miracle of sense.
November’s Pilgrim sets itself down in the middle of a whirling indeterminacy – “like the sailors in the wild seas,” to quote Karan Raja – and makes its report. Louis Hayes is injured outside the Night Center; Steve Murray is in sight of housing; Holly Mally refuses to be bitten in the ass by an autumnal depression. Elsewhere, Gizzmo appeals to his old friends, and The Pilgrim’s old friend Spider checks in from Ohio.
We welcome to our pages Ricardo, Kimberley, and Brian Felty, and we rejoice in the return of our wild poet, Roger Morris.