Issue 3, containing: A List of Good Things, Small Ways, Lists (Continued), Letters, Commonplaces, &c.

—————————— 

SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

The more I think about it, the more I wish there was a Letters section in this. From the old Regency/Victorian magazines that I stole this format from, to the loose piles of old apazines that my mother collected in big cardboard boxes and were never put away after the final move to my childhood home, letters have been a fascinating gateway into the minds of not just the zine’s staff or author, but the entire community surrounding it. 

Tracing the paths of letters back and forth, following the internecine arguments and the subtle play of the editorial spotlight, learning how to read a conversation with pauses the lengths of years, can not only provide hours of entertainment, but also a window into what made — and makes — a community: what they loved, what they hated, and what they felt very, very passionately about.

So I’m going to create the Letters section, and fill it until such time as there is a community to interact with it. This may or may not work, but the attempt is worth the possible reward. 

—————————— 

A LIST OF GOOD THINGS

It’s strange the way stress can manifest. I have for some weeks now been experiencing a dull ache in my face — and each time I notice it (for it is only rarely that I notice that I am experiencing any sort of ongoing pain), I realize that I’ve been clenching my jaw for some unknown hours.

When I was much younger, and life was a different kind of stressful, I kept a list of things that would cheer me up regardless of what else was going on. I remember little of what was on that first list, except that “picking flowers” was one, as was “reading a romance”. Later, I came across the concept again in some works by Virginia Mohlere, as “a list of things that are good no matter what”, with such entries as “baking,” “family,” and “the Anti-Valentine’s Day No-Touch Club.” 

I’ve seen several variants of this “good things” concept running around, but not labeled as such — instead, they often seem carefully couched in terms of general self-care, such as “take a deep breath,” “drink a glass of water,” and, indeed, “unclench your jaw.” Which is not to say these aren’t valuable lists — they very much are. But they are all, I think, things that we believe we should be doing anyway, and can therefore feel ‘okay’ taking a moment to do. They are productive, as our to-do lists are, our work lists, our chore lists. To be productive feels safe, and safety is something that is in short supply at times. 

I think, though, that there is value in creating a list of nothings. There are secondary effects to picking flowers — exercise, free decor, a brief moment in the sun — but none of those effects are why that action is on my list. I just… like picking flowers. Letting my vision blur just a little, drifting over flowers, until something catches my eye. The sense of focus. The feel of the stem between my fingers. The clutch of green in my hand as I walk, looking and not-looking for another.

The good comes from the act, not from the benefits that act gives me. I feel an uncomplicated happiness when I pick flowers. That is the value, and it is sufficient unto the day.

It is also very embarrassing to admit to liking picking flowers. But there’s value in that admission, too. That’s why creating the list itself is so important. I sit down, and really think about what makes me happy — I forgive myself for what comes to mind, and write it all down, no matter how silly or unimportant — and then, when needed, I pull out the the list again. I pull it out, and read it over, and remind myself that there are dozens of real, actual things in this world that, regardless of anything else, can give me joy. 

—————————— 

SMALL WAYS

I collect antique postcards. It makes me happy to go through the piles of them in antique stores, generally sold to (I imagine) stamp collectors or scrapbookers, neither of whom are interested in the letters themselves. Even when I don’t buy them, I enjoy deciphering the words and admiring the handwriting, discovering over and over that humans, in general, have not changed very much over time. 

But my favorite postcard goes beyond even those minor enjoyments. It’s an Easter card, embossed so that the art stands in relief in the front — but the back is what interests me.

The postcard is from March 19, 1913. The stamp is 1 cent. It’s addressed to Miss Mary Belden, Sharon (a town in Massachusetts), with either the word “town” or a very exciting interpretation of a zip code underneath, sent from Brooklyn, New York.

The “Miss” has been overwritten slightly, so it’s unclear if it’s meant to be “Miss” or “Mrs.” Maybe that was an error, poorly corrected. Maybe it was intentional.

The letter itself is curved around the depressions caused by the embossing, all available scraps of flat space used to convey a very brief message. It reads:

Was glad to receive a few words from you.

I am still here

77, not far from you in age.

Would like to have a chat with you — but probably that will never be. 

Love, Mrs. Barnum

When I found this postcard, I couldn’t imagine letting it go. Someone did, once. It was in the shop for a reason. But the thought of it getting pasted up to provide a boho background to some insipid summer album, or steamed and thrown away to facilitate a fledgling hobby, filled me with a dull horror.

These were people, once. And there was feeling, there. I can only try, in my small way, to honor that.

—————————— 

LISTS (CONTINUED)

Humans like lists. We like the sound of them in fiction, and we like writing them. I don’t know why. It’s a common tactic in comedic writing. It can create a hypnotic rhythm when employed with slant rhymes and assonance. Lists are satisfying when they are created, and they are more satisfying when they are struck off. In college, we were asked to create “Done Is Good” lists during finals, so we could see and understand that there was an endpoint coming — but so that we could also reward ourselves for what we had accomplished. (Productivity is a rewarding mistress, even as she slowly drains you.)

In some ways, this magazine is a list. A short list of things I’m thinking about, expanded to explain to an outside audience. A longer, more outward facing version of my personal list of good things. Here, a history note. Here, a quote I like. Here, some letters I saved. Here, some letters I have made up for my own amusement. My list of good things is private in many respects, but the Minor Hours are, I hope, some good things I can share with you all.

—————————— 

LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Patron, “Welcome”:

We here at Minor Hours and Small Thoughts Magazine welcome you to our pages, and hope you do us the honor of sticking around for at least a month or two, as it would gratify our sense of accomplishment and also be less embarrassing than losing the only patron we have so far gained due to mismanagement or sheer boredom.

******

From the Magazine, to the Neighbors, Downstairs, “Please Stop”:

The Editors would like it known that they would greatly appreciate it if you would, kindly, consider the health and interests of your fellow building residents, and stop being Quite Like That for the foreseeable future.

******

From the Magazine, to the Cats, “You Are Fooling No-one”:

We are very well aware that tuna fish is an interesting topic, and we would be more inclined to write articles on the matter if you were less inclined to tipping dinner onto the floor and then stepping in it.

—————————— 

COMMONPLACES

From Cabin Pressure’s “Fitton“:

“I’m fairly often just completely happy. Like for instance, when you get into a bath quickly and it’s just the right temperature, and you go ‘ooooh.’ I mean, really, no one gets any happier than that.”

“What a depressing thought.”

“No, no, it’s not, though, because those sorts of things happen all the time, whereas, you know, you’re hardly ever blissfully happy with the love of your life in the moonlight, and when you are, you’re too busy worrying about it being over soon–whereas the bath moments, there’s loads of those!”

******

From Welcome to Night Vale’s “Glow Cloud“:

“Dear listeners, here is a list of things: Emotions you don’t understand upon viewing a sunset. Lost pets, found. Lost pets, unfound. A secret lost-pet city on the moon. Trees that see. Restaurants that hear. A void that thinks. A face half seen just before falling asleep. Trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items. Sandwiches. Silence when there should be noise. Noise when there should be silence. Nothing when you want something. Something when you thought there was nothing. Clear plastic binder sheets. Scented dryer sheets. Rain coming down in sheets. Night. Rest. Sleep. End.”

——————————

ANNOUNCEMENTS

It is with both shock and awe that I am delighted to announce that a patron has joined the magazine. Hello, patron. Hi.

For everyone else, I’ve decided to open up the first three issues, so as to show a better range of what this zine is about. I’ll likely do that with the first flash story that goes up, at the end of the month, but then that’s it — my patron (hello again, patron) returns to being the sole beneficiary of my meanderings.

******

If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at minor.hours.magazine@gmail.com with the subject line: 

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you’d rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print. 

******

-Until next week, be safe.