Notes from the Editor's Desk -- 9/26/22

When called upon to articulate my beliefs, this occurring, all of a sudden, or else suddenly in comparison with the enormity of the subject, in a barroom where several screens ran the gamut from true crime to sports, both early innings and red zone stands, I find that a presence descends despite my avowed understanding that our volition in life is nil. Our walk along the trails, early in autumn, as it was in the evening, provided me with the external articulation of my belief, as an interval where the wind made a note of every leaf obliterated my sense of self and left purer being exposed. Complex and murky as was my beer, complex and murky its immediate effect in the blood, I was not content with any personal articulation of belief, despite so recent an elucidation, and try as I might. Before long, that presence, unable to pass through its bottleneck, and never willing to remain long where its mouthpieces fail it, departed the scene, and my fond company, too, departed with me, the results of the screen’s several contests yet obscure.

Then in the evening, country records played at home, the kind that the stations, subtle and understated as are their songs, no longer afford air time. Perplexedly I listened, wondering why a concept of personal salvation, which ostensibly rejects my actual understanding, appears to be a satisfactory vehicle for the articulation of my belief. Cognizance tapered to no extreme, music in its simplicity, the harmonies well within my capacity to follow and describe, was rendered complex and murky. Forever does a muddiness remain incumbent, a cardiovascular congestion, passed from one labor some forebear to the next, maybe at fault. Brilliance is not our natural mode. Much as I share their detriment, it seems just as likely they shared my awareness of spiritual presence.