| Editor's Note: Flux |
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Maybe you read flux aloud, like it is a word to be spoken and heard, like because of the exotic x it is four letters of poetry. And I wonder if your mouth pauses over the little word, the same way our hearts quicken at thoughts of a new baby or a lost father, of change, instability and fluctuation. For flux is unresting. But it is also lively. And on some occasions, this combination generates great things. I think the contributors in this issue have captured this generative nature of flux; they have found more exotic x’s, as in Stephanie Gehring’s lines: that in spite of myself I look up, reaching, wrap my fingertips into the rock, send my toes searching for a crack, an edge, a place to start. And some contributors have recovered old constants. Like how, for all the change in this world (or perhaps because), some things still need to be said over and over, because we never truly get past the playground or the parables or our grandmother’s ancestry. And while this issue is concerned with change, it also investigates permanence. As Liz Laribee suggests in her essay “Seven Things I Used to Think About,” the existence of flux is part of why we buy thumbtacks and hang Post-its, attempting to nail some things down. Because, as so many of our contributors point out, we want a place to start, a square of words to hold on to, a God that doesn’t alter, and an eternity that doesn’t end. So it seems that, ultimately, this issue is made up of letters and lines and squares of paper that invite us to revel in the flux, perhaps precisely because of the fixedness He offers. Blessings, Brianna Van Dyke |
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