Issue 4, containing: Tips for Garden Design, Classifieds, Further Notes on Deities, Letters, Summer Fashion Plate, Commonplaces, &c.

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SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

In my everyday writing, I am considerably looser than I am here. I use more contractions. I am more likely to use slang and netspeak. I am a fiend for all-caps, and I regret no gifs.

The flavor of this magazine’s inspiration, though, has seeped itself into the writing here, and I am not particularly interested in blanching it out. It’s fun to treat myself with an older sytax. It is its own kind of freedom, to move from what is quickly digestible and easily memed, to a more drawn out and taffy-slow style. Quick wit is not the purpose here. I write this to remind myself of good things. I write this to luxuriate in the act of writing.

Whether this is of interest to the general reading public is a matter for debate, but it is of an interest to me — and that, I am finding, is victory enough. 

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TIPS FOR GARDEN DESIGN

The other day I spent a large amount of time searching for garden statuary. I do not currently possess a garden, but I do have a Pinterest page, on which I keep a secret board filled entirely with what I call “cloud-castling” — a sort of visual mood board and link list of things I would like to have in the house I hope to someday own.

One of the things I enjoy doing is setting out the twine-ball of my mind to see what paths it takes, and Pinterest is a useful way to trace my way back through the labyrinth to see how I got from a rather simple start (“this house looks nice!”) to a decidedly more esoteric end (“are there any quarries within a three-hour radius that specifically carry Conway Granite, because I Need It”).

And so it was, that day a few days ago, that I came to realize that I quite like the idea of having a tiny garden shrine with a little statue in it. I’m Catholic, in that way where I couldn’t quite tell you what the Annunciation is or why Ash Wednesday is a Thing, but I have a favorite line in the “Dives and Lazarus” folk ballad, and I can do an off-the-cuff exorcism should the occasion warrant. (My sister has pointed out that we have a very pagan idea of Catholicism, and she isn’t wrong.)

The majority of shrine-related garden statuary consists of (1) St. Francis of Assisi, (2) various interpretations of the Virgin Mary, and (3) nameless but very human-looking angels. Leaving aside the fact that I prefer my angels with a thousand eyes and six faces, I am not particularly interested in having non-specific religious undertones in my garden. St. Francis is perfectly nice, as these things go, but I have no special affinity for him. The Virgin is well enough, but she no doubt has better things to do than be in my garden.

What I really want, which I did not realize until I had let my mind unspool, unchecked, through endless screens of twee garden photos, was a statue of St. Juliana of Nicomedia.

This is not a hagiography (or, at least, this particular portion of the magazine is not), so in short: My mother sold me to a saint before I was born, in return for giving my mother the grace to finish her doctoral thesis and turn it in on time. That this particular saint was chosen largely because she was being referenced in a footnote of said thesis is of no matter. A deal was struck. The thesis was turned in on time– and later, when I arrived on the scene, I was given the middle name of Juliana.

As it was explained to me, Juliana’s claim to fame — aside from being a martyr and appearing in some Old English poetry that was just interesting enough to warrant a footnote — was that she wrestled a demon until it was forced to confess its sins to her and, after doing so, it then wandered back to Hell in embarrassment.

This is the statue I want in my future garden. This is the scene I wish to sit beside and gently meditate on. This is what, it turns out, does not exist, because apparently most people want a tonsured man with birdseed up his sleeves beside their roses, rather than a much more inspiring Turkish woman beatifically pulling a monster into an armlock while it squawks for mercy.

And this is why I am soliciting the names of sculptors, should you happen to have any conveniently to hand. 

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CLASSIFIEDS

In search of: one sculptor, specializing in stone or cement, reasonable prices. Talent for muscled women, action poses, demonic forms. Contact the magazine directly.

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For sale: Downstairs neighbors. Free. Pick-up only.

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Missed connections: Single man of good fortune in want of a wife. Met you by accident on a dark and stormy night. Called me Ishmael, the invisible man. It was a pleasure to burn with you. Let’s meet again, somewhere in la Mancha.

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FURTHER NOTES ON DEITIES, GREAT AND SMALL

I live in Massachusetts; I come from New Hampshire. My children are both Massachusetts born-and-bred, which has led, unfortunately, to some necessary education on the topic of mountain gods.

It’s difficult to explain the mountain gods to those who haven’t grown up with them. There is a sense of Something up in the mountains, made up of granite and schist and plates of mica, the air humming with the kinetic fossils of glaciers still tumbling water across stone. It’s not like the Fair Folk, who you generally do not want to encounter in any capacity — the mountain gods are already there, and they already know you. So it’s important to be respectful, and avoid monkey-paw wishes where they can hear you, because the mountains have no sense of humor but a very keen sense of irony.

In the garden that I hope to someday have, in a corner separate from my MMA saint, I want a big boulder made of Conway Granite, the stone that made up the Old Man of the Mountain. It’s particular to the Notch and the gods that live there. I can say I want a boulder now, because I am many hundreds of miles away, and the mountain gods cannot (with ease) give me the boulder right this very moment through the judicious use of gravity and good aim. I would like a boulder, but I am unwilling to scavenge it, steal it, or otherwise remove it from where it should be — I will, instead, like a reasonable person, go to a stone yard and pick whatever rock feels most correct, and pay the fee, and quietly go my way again, having done the transaction as respectfully as possible.

And when my boulder comes (if it comes, if I am chosen, if it is safe and I am respectful), I will put it carefully in a patch that catches both sun and shade, and I will give it water so it can remember ice. My daughters will climb all over it, which is as a mountain should be treated, even so far from home, and my youngest one, who is the rockhound of the two, will curl up beside it and whisper her own stone secrets to it, as she does the tiny rocks she gathers now, filling her pockets and bringing the mountains gods home with her.

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LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Patrons, “Welcome (Redux)”:

The Editors would again like to extend a warm welcome to new patrons, and we continue to be deeply surprised that you exist.

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From the Magazine, to the Cats, “Please Do Not Claw There”:

The Editors would like to remind the cats that there are a number of approved clawing surfaces available, and that the couch, the bed, and the landlord’s carpet are not on that list. It is particularly aggravating that a new sisal mat has been purchased, only for you to reveal that the best surface for clawing can be found immediately surrounding — but not in any way touching — said mat.

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From the Magazine, to Itself, “Why Are You Doing This?”:

We are not the plural third-person. There is also no single editor, let alone a multiple of them. We realize we are employing stylistic shenanigans for the sake of humor, but at what cost? At some point, we may need to actually edit something in a plurality, and no one will believe it.

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SUMMER FASHION PLATE

Our summer model for the month of July is St. Juliana, seen here in sportswear. Dress from Runfridr. Accessories are a cudgel and general sanctity.

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COMMONPLACES 

From Voddxa’s “Side Effects of Being an Angel“:

SIDE EFFECTS OF BEING AN ANGEL:

1. There is always the taste of honey and vodka stuck in your mouth

2. Your teeth will never feel sharp enough

3. Your back will always ache from the wings it once held

4. The body always holds a burning feeling

5. The homesickness

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From Cynewulf’s “Juliana“:

ða wæs þære fæmnan              ferð geblissad,
domeadigre.                                  Heo þæt deofol genom

Then was that maiden          her soul rejoicing
blessed with power.               She laid hold of the demon

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ANNOUNCEMENTS

As of this writing, our patrons number three. Hello, patrons. Welcome, gentle readers.

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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. 

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-Until next week, be safe.