A raven lights on a chain link fence in a dilapidated urban neighborhood, and I see an avatar of death and change, here before this city and here still long after it crumbles to dust. Watching us with an inhuman mix of sympathy and apathy, he knows that all this has come before and it will all happen again. Still he delights in the feisty ways we cling to our breathlessly short lives, seeing in this the seeds of both great hope and great despair.
There is harmony in the gossamer violence of a spider's web, an irony that an implement of entrapment and destruction is also a symbol of the interconnectedness of all life. In proper contradiction, I hate the sight of small creatures struggling not to be dinner; but the most heartbreaking lines I have ever read are in Peter S. Beagle's description of the sound of a disillusioned spider weeping. We are all connected, and I pray that no sadness is inconsolable.
This is the world I write, within the pages of this journal. Fiction and nonfiction, the magical and the mundane- and the magical within the mundane. Dreams and truths as best I find them. A hope for the world, and the stories sent forth in service of that hope. To believe in the good in mankind, and everything else, to peel back the veil from what we think we see and reveal something deeper, more real.