Issue 11, containing: Some Considerations Toward Window Treatments, Further Notes on Saints and Statues, A Long-Withheld Definition, More Saint Hilarity, Letters, Commonplaces, &c.

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SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

Well, hello.

I compose these issues in the Patreon window, because it is comforting to write in a constrained block a’la LiveJournal and Tumblr. The associations I hold with long-form writing in tiny boxes are such that it just feels easier to accomplish, and as it isn’t a destructive habit, it’s one that I’m generally happy to allow.

However.

The downside to using an active window such as the one I am even now composing in is that errors in the platform beyond my control can lead to, shall we say, loss. Such as, for instance, several paragraphs of this very issue, which seem to have been eaten by the grim gods of code upgrades or some other computer-science-related nonsense.

Recreating lost prose does not come easily to me. It fills me with a dreadful annoyance. I have heard that trying to rewrite can lead to a refining of the original, because the shining highlights are all that remain in the memory — but I am rather of the opinion that that is making poor wine out of precious few grapes, for myself at any rate. I am not one who easily salvages the past. Generally I appreciate that aspect of my brain, as it means that I can reread a draft and see it with fresh eyes. It is not, however, particularly helpful in this moment. 

I am somewhat fortunate that I have, at least, my notes as to what I had intended to write. It is unfortunate that the original expansion of those notes is now lost — but if you would be so kind, Gentle Readers, to bring yourselves to sup with the ghost of what had been, I would count it as a kindly favor.

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SOME CONSIDERATIONS TOWARD WINDOW TREATMENTS

As keen readers may remember, I have been for some weeks now rearranging my entire apartment. This is something I’m not alone in — I have heard of many people who are, for reasons of the World and Everything, engaging in a kind of Fall Nesting, sister to the vernal equinox’s Spring Cleaning. It is, I think, whether subconsciously or not, intended to prepare for a winter that will be more similar than not to the bubbled existence of a very small space station.

(Had the members of the space station the ability, I am certain they would paint their walls and invest in new organizational furniture with astonishing regularity.)

In our last issue, I made several mentions of my couch making its merry way from the back wall to the center of the living room, splitting the room in two and creating, with any luck, an illusion of space that did not in fact exist. I am happy to report that the move has been so far successful — and, what’s more, there is an Unexpected Benefit.

It has been some little time since I first noticed that I prefer a view when I work. In particular, I like a window, and that window, for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, I prefer to be on the left. Over and over, as I review the best work I have accomplished, there are windows, and they are on my left. In my regrettable twenties, I had a house where I sat in a corner of the living room, and there was a glass door to the back deck through which I could fix my eye while typing. In my excitable early thirties, I found a desk in a library’s second floor that had floor-to-ceiling windows, directly in front of me and likewise stretching far to the left. I have managed, in my day jobs, to consistently arrange my desks and computers such that, when there are windows, they are to my left (with the exception of the Basement Job, of which a lack of windows did not even make the top ten of my concerns with the position). And in the last few years I found that while I did not write with much consistency in my own home, if I went out to coffee shops and sat near their sinister windows, I was astonishingly productive.

And now… now. There has been a Reckoning in my apartment. There is a desk now pressed against a kitchen window, and to my left I have propped a mirror that reflects the sky and my increasing plant collection. In my living room, I have turned my couch so that it faces the window there, and, if I sit propped against one arm (as I am now), with some blankets laid over my lap and a cat at my feet, both the window and the television are now to my left… along with a very large parlor palm, a medium-sized indoor water fountain, and a lamp.

I have, not entirely knowingly, created a feast of input to my left, provided I sit in the very manner that I’m rather inclined toward anyway.

I wish that I knew why I tilt this direction. Is there a psychological reason behind it? It used to be thought that a liar would look to the right while building their deceit, as that was using the “creative” side of the brain, but not only has that notion been debunked, but it also would seem to suggest that everything I write is Truth, which is both laughable and depressing.

It could be nurture rather than nature. My earliest memories, I remember playing with blocks, a glass sliding door pouring light in from my left. In my bedroom at that age, I remember the window was to the left as I entered the room, as I opened my toy chest, as I climbed into the storage closet and rather cunningly discovered a packet of safety razors that, not so cunningly, I discovered were not as safe as all that.

And then again, older, my bedroom in the house I spent most of my childhood. My desk was beside the leftward window, a crabapple tree brushing against my window, a hedge of old-fashioned roses beyond it, and a mountain climbing up behind them all.

Then again, this might all be selective memory. I find the instances that match my theory, and conveniently forget or ignore those that don’t. In the end, trying to justify the whys and wherefores of my attentions is an interesting exercise, but not a productive one. It’s enough to know that it works, I think. And if it harms no one, why not indulge it? My left-leaning world is really only noticeable to me. And if it helps — more, if it makes me happy — then that’s reason enough to both allow and encourage it.

I wonder, Readers, what world you bring into focus around yourselves, and how it might match with mine.

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FURTHER NOTES ON SAINTS AND STATUES

In an earlier issue, I went on at length regarding the statue of Saint Juliana of Nicomedia that I wished to have commissioned and placed in the garden that I hope to someday have.

Recently, in a strange 1970s herbal lore zine I happened to have about my person, I found a reference to Saint Fiacre, apparently the patron saint of gardeners and herbalists (and, more excitingly, victims of hemorrhoids and venereal diseases). I naturally went looking for statues of him, with some hope that I would find some truly interesting artwork, but instead I found this delightful example of what I have decided to call “St Fiacre drops all his flowers, oh man, oh, fuck, there they go”:

It reminds me no little amount of the quiet genius of the “When you trip and your spaghetti falls out of your pocket” vine by KingBach. I find a saint who is just trying his best, possibly while suffering from some uncomfortable personal issues, to be eminently relatable.

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A LONG-WITHHELD DEFINITION, REVEALED

The full name of this newsletter is The Minor Hours and Small Thoughts Magazine, of which half is readily understandable to the regular reader. I lay out in these pages, as I have said before, the small but good thoughts that make up my day.

The “minor hours” part is less easy to parse perhaps. It’s a reference to my days, and the subjects about which I like to write here: the small things, the little moments that make up a life. But it also refers to the minor hours of Catholic timekeeping. While there are some Big Deal prayers that have to happen during parts of the day, there are some… less big ones. Minor ones. Ones that are more related, I think, with needing to keep the time with some level of accuracy in a Medieval society than with, let’s say, liturgical necessity.

Moreover, one of the common (if such can be said) lay texts available to non-monastics in the Middle Ages was something called a book of hours, which tended to be more personalized, private versions of the prayer books available to priests and nuns. These were the books that someone might refer to on their own, to remind them how to go about their days.

The Minor Hours Magazine records the smaller moments of life, keeping track of the passage of time even when there’s nothing particularly exciting to report. Personalized, but public. Not so much a book of hours, but a magazine of them. Of mine. As a gift to you, and to myself, to mark the movement of the clock.

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A NOTE TO GENTLE READERS

The Magazine is conducting a poll. Please indicate which is most true and least true by emailing minor.hours.magazine@gmail.com, or by whatever means you’d prefer:

• Autumn is a wonderful time.
• Autumn is the bane of my existence.
• I am allergic to autumn.
• Autumn is allergic to me.
• Spooky season is best season.
• I have ceased to understand the passage of time and no longer recognize the petty perambulations of nature.

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MORE SAINT HILARITY

Further research has led me to find that St. Fiacre is also the patron saint of box makers, florists, hosiers, pewterers, tilemakers, and, of all things, taxi cab drivers.

His medal, for reasons that escape me completely, appears to be of him holding a frying pan as he approaches a ladder, a lightning storm behind him — all of which I can only assume implies that he intends to fry his hemorrhoids off for the greater glory of God.

It is, I feel, entirely in keeping with my brand of Catholicism that I am now desperately in love with him.

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LETTERS

From the Magazine, to the Living Room Pantry, “Are We Expecting Guests”:

The Editors are well aware that having a large closet off the living room is an unusual feature. We have long held that using it as a storage and pantry space is a natural use of the area. We are also aware, however, that every other apartment in this building experiences mice, and we have not for some years now, due to a non-zero number of cats and the diligent application of silicone sealants. So it is with some concern that the Editors have noted the sound of rustling coming from said pantry now that the temperature has dropped. Please advise us immediately as to the situation, so that we may know just how much needs replacing.

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From the Magazine, to the Funny Sound in the Bathroom, “What”:

We have long supposed this apartment to be lacking in ghosts. We wish to continue believing this.

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From St. Fiacre, to the Magazine, “Flowers? For Me?”:

This is all so sudden.

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COMMONPLACES

From Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Basquiat-isms (ed. Larry Warsh):

I cross out words so you will see them more; the fact that they are obscured makes you want to read them.

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From Michael Lee’s “Row,” in The Only Worlds We Know:

I simply want and what dear god
is on the other side of want? I want that too.
My want is so wide I cannot cross it.

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From D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover:

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

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ANNOUNCEMENTS

For those who are subscribed to the tier that receives original fiction every month… surprise! You get two this month, because last month’s was eaten by the same foul monster that ate the earlier paragraphs of this issue, and I am still sulking about it.

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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.