Notes from the Editor's Desk -- 5/26/22

Water falls from the lip of the ventilated face of a watering can onto the face of a dead iPhone in an Otterbox and a copy of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit below, my notebook in the grass below these, earth below all. Q— directs the distribution of straw, once the binds are cut, and compost, once the straw walk is laid down and the bag is pulled open. I am as dim and indifferent as the medium itself, but a reserve of potential therefore. The exposed earth demonstrates the benefit of forethought, its oppressive extents in all directions unusable by us, save for what can be wrought by premeditated cultivation. An acre’s worth of wheat just beyond the wires of the fence proves in its movement what luxury is to be earned by dint of our present efforts. A plan for the garden, looking neater and more ideal than could be realized in the unruly dirt, describes where fallible hands are to plant flighty marigold seeds, unimpressive beans, and austere corn, all of these unaware of their place in the master gardener’s plan. “All right, yous little bee balms, off you go. You are not much good in the palm of my hand, believe me. This dark hole is your abode. Fear not lest those in your company sense this and despair that all is lost. Away, brave seeds,” I say to them before enfolding their minuscule dimensions in earth. Q— walks about with a yardstick, making her belabored designs in the yielding matter. I fetch my can and provide for my rows. I have heard it said the village idiot knows best the village mud, because he takes to it as interestedly as does the common wit a mirror.