a note from the editor 06

by Ishan Benegal, Editor-in-Chief

Volume 6

raze | renew | erode




How often do we weigh the first sentence of a story with its counterpart that closes it?
Is its ending not as continuous as its beginning; is its beginning not as continuous as its ending?

I wonder whether our perception of endings does them justice.

There is an equal amount of excitement and trepidation when we talk about beginning. The age old adages of the limitless possibilities and simultaneous crushing endlessness of the blank page, the blank canvas, the blank stage are continuous. But what of endings?

A beginning is an end.
A beginning marks the departure of what was, contiguous with endings.

Two Koi swimming effortlessly towards and away from one another.
Asking us to remember:

Remember endings are continuous.
A new day marks the end of its predecessor
Zero insistence that they need be twins
Entrenched to joined fates.

Remember beginnings are continuous.
Even in silence there is sound when we stop to
Notice the gentle touch of the
Earth’s whisper as she says
Wherefore.

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editor's note

Volume 09

clay | chlorophyll | crimson

Grass is green where you water it. LC’s words float along over Misch’s guitar. It’s a phrase that feels so obvious, and I’m sure those who tend to gardens know this more than most, but it seems to land more than before. The impact noticeable, memorable, echoing through my being. Perhaps we’re ingrained to think it’s greener elsewhere. This patch is the problem and not whether we’re watering it. The key is in the watering. How we go about this practice is what defines our patch of grass. No matter where we go, our patch is, perhaps, the same. Some attributes and characteristics have been changed but the essence is the same: Us.

Stepping into Volume 09 of imprint, marks our third year. I am learning that this patch of green that we have been tending to for the last several years will mould, shift, and sculpt. This depends on how we water it and allow it to take its own shape. It has already happened in wonderfully unexpected ways. There is only so much structure or shape we can predetermine. Beyond that, it will absorb what it needs and reject all that is unnecessary. And perhaps, in this practice, we are changed. Our grass is watered as we water that of our writing, our image making, our practice, our magazine.

From light to dark, rigid to supple, new to old, there is so much in between that is bright and vibrant and unexpected. The practice of our magazine has focused on being open to what we receive; being open to deeply listening to what is shared; being open to work taking us to new journeys. This volume, and this year, will be no different. We will continue tending to it as we have done, learning along the way, from past seasons and present ones.

And yet, I know it will be entirely different.
But still.
It will be watered.