Since our last issue, we have lost two Pilgrim regulars -- one to illness and one to violence. As writers, Ned Carleton and Frank Brescia had very different styles. Ned, magnificently transplanted highbrow, loved to hover over an idea, especially a bad idea. Week after week he would perform -- in his immaculate and winningly splenetic prose -- what amounted to small acts of cultural hygiene. "More Dumb Ideas About The Computer" was the title of one of his columns; "What, Then, Is Sincerity?" was another. Frank, artist and local patriot, wrote shuffling, baggy, generous poems about life/death and walking across Boston Common, the characteristic shortness of his line seeming to echo the shortness of his steps, his abbreviated Frank gait. In one poem, driving back to the city after a weekend in the country, he sees the Hancock and the Pru from a crest of Route 93 and hails "My bastions, my towers,/ my Boston, my home."
But both men were pilgrim writers who wrote steadily and unerringly out of their own experiences -- and so found a way, in their writing, to be nothing but themselves.
In this issue we welcome to our pages John Ahern, Richard Francis Ray, Sunshine, Una, David, Drew L. Wilson, Eric Foley, Kasey David LeBoeuf, Getty, TBD, Virgo, Desiree, Sully, Bobby Everett, Nadiyah Mohammed and Pat Scott.