muntazar

Visual exploration by Anshuka Mahapatra

Amid distant horrors,  
A parallel story unravels.

A stream of images desensitizes my conscience,
Numbing me to immediate events.
Blurring the lines between presence and absence,
Waiting transforms into grief. 
Guilt and shame weigh heavy, 
Eroding any remnants of faith. 

I find myself feeling inadequate, 
A fleeting moment hitting me with the gravity of it all.
It becomes painfully clear: 
The sacrifices of those close to me, 
The helplessness of those far from me. 

Amid horrors close by, 
Parallel stories unravel in a distant land.  

Everything around unfolds in random patterns,
As if resistance has worn thin against the relentless tide. 
In the name of land, creed fades away, 
And the bed of recovery becomes a coveted prize.
Sighs mingle with wails, 
Lullabies morph into dirges. 

To pause is to deny the intensity of my surroundings,
To pause is to deny the cruelty. 
It feels eerily familiar,  
As if waiting for me to succumb and collect the weight. 

Amid horrors everywhere, 
Stories keep unraveling:
A woman holding a baby, 
A man grasping for breath,
A life sustaining another.

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.