Notes from the Editor's Desk -- 3/1/22

A rhapsody materializes. Walking along Central in Highland Park, knowing that I headed toward the lake, but the exact description of the promontory, as were all the houses, yet unknown to me, I managed to enter a state of relaxed indifference. Spring brought about a scent that acted on me as does any division of stained glass on any other division. Suddenly, the depiction was entire. Fuel, conjoined with the dissembled limbs of trees, and the pulping of stumps, combined with mud and the new budding shoots like pigments, oils, and solvents do. It bridged my afternoon walk to other, past and dimly comprehended afternoons of bygone years. Of course, when I got to it, the actual bridge, this leading to the unexplored overlook, was impassable due to tree work. I lingered to watch before seeking out a more familiar route to the north.

An indecision was expressed on the water; however, frolicsome it wast not, and I re-entered a states of erstwhile consideration before departing the shore. Do you not realize that all consideration is erstwhile? And that all resists your influence? Hiking up the slope of a ravine, the sun, providing an abundance of its threads in the spindles of the trees, stacked another element upon the distinct smell and the accumulated memories of that smell that distinctly marks a change, in pace as in season. Its beauty reduced me, and I understood that there is talent I lack.

Others mark the sun in its every phase. In winter even do they offer it an urn, and its rays, in turn, become fluid while all else is latticed and cannot but fill this urn. To pass this way at the exact point day by day would augment greatly my capacity in this respect. In good time will I lose track of this intent, and it will not last days, to say nothing of seasons. Even the fact that I wrote these reflections will one day be lost on me.