Thank you all for your readership!
2014 was year of learning how to blog and blog better and blog well and not embarrass ourselves. We’re excited for what 2015 holds in store for us! The following are our goals for the new year. We hope you like them!
1. Start a podcast of sorts. – A series built on conversations with the “resident” writers on the subject of art and faith and their interconnectivity (or lack thereof). We’re aiming for one a month.
2. Two posts per week. – While this may not seem like much. It totally is. That means 104 posts this year. That’s a lot of writing for volunteers who do this for no money. Bear with us, we want to show you what we got.
3. Better exhibit our resident’s artist work. – We have many writers, but they do other things too. We want to create an avenue where their other work could be exhibited on this blog if they so desire. Overall, we’re seeking to have a diverse exhibition of artwork. This will also mean an increase in short-stories, poems, and other creative mediums while maintaining the opinion pieces that we’ve frequently posted.
4. More residents featured.– This collective is a collective of artists. Plain and simple. We are artists for artists and want more of us to contribute. If you are or know anyone interested in contributing shoot us message and we’ll get in touch. We’re always interested.
Again, big thanks to all my contributors and to all our readers. We love what we do and want to get better.
Happy New Year!
It’s been seven months since I last heard from her. To be fair, there wasn’t anything particularly impressive about the jowl of a woman whose irritability could be metrically weighed in relation to the volume of smoke she inhaled daily. Nothing handsome in an ironic smile. No, but when she spoke there was reason for even Heaven to defer its judgment.
Why it’s been so long since I’ve had to decipher one of those cryptic messages sent in that ancient time of night—the kind of writing you expect etched on the limestone of some great Egyptian sarcophagus, not egregiously parceled out by the hands of a tremoring alcoholic—is peculiar. By now we should have solicited unwarranted justificatory premises to support our syllogistic love in the face of current relational commitments. In fact, there never were such commitments. Just faux representations of passionate endearment manipulatively used to suppress the void for however long it convinced a fool.
We knew the limits of each other’s emotional affect. We knew the morning light would dispel the revisionist history only ecstasy can proffer. We made need, not love. But in that last week my light-cones showered her from the spigot of obsession.
It’s been seven months since I held her reassuring hand like a reaper while we walked through the thicket of our conversational past; though now silent because she’d tucked away the branches of her mind below a canopy of grandiosity. She alone had worn the grooves in the self-deprecating understory of her cystic existence. But I knew the path out.
No one seems to grasp why. They’re too consumed by life’s petty futilities to be able to harness the sense of self-awareness required to see their remarkable alienation. She would talk like that. Like I said, cryptic. But now it’s been seven months since I last saw her. I want to tell her that I’m getting better. That’s it’s been that long since I’ve dissociated from myself.
I want to go back to that morning. Back to that moment. I remember it was the seventh hour when she realized—when I completed her.
They don’t understand. I didn’t murder you. I freed you! So why has it been seven months since?