Taste the Strawberry (Michael Intro)

A recap of the week's writing at Atticus Review. Introduction by Michael Meyerhofer.

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As I write this, I’m sitting in my living room with the front door open. The sun is shining and there’s a nice breeze rolling in. Once in a while, a car blasting music or a pair of laughing bicyclists roll by. It seems like just another fine day in California—the kind of day when I want to hurry and finish up what I’m working on so I can head to the gym, then go meet a friend for a beer or a pizza. Then, I remember that as of the time I’m writing this, over sixty thousand people have perished from a disease most of us had never even heard of a few months ago. And upon closer inspection, I notice an undercurrent of tension to the smiles of those who are out walking—a reminder that they’re just stretching their legs for a moment before hurrying back inside.

Anyone who knows me or is familiar with my writing has probably heard me go off more than once about duality, how every aspect of life seems to be sewn to its opposite: beauty to horror, life to death, anxiety to art. That’s certainly the case now. Or, put another way, the absurdity of our human situation has simply been more loudly illustrated by the arrival of Covid-19. But I wonder if the other side is visible too: not just the desire for community laid bare by isolation and loneliness, but the capacity of art to do exactly what art was made to do in times like these.

Here’s something you don’t often hear: it’s a great time to be a writer. It’s a great time to be a reader, too. And it’s not that there are suddenly more stories available for our consumption than there were back in January; rather, it’s that we have more time to devote to them. That’s not all, though. Something else is at play—something that can’t be described easily—and it reminds me of a Buddhist story I heard many years ago.

A man was traveling across a field when he encountered a tiger. He fled; the tiger gave chase. Finally, when the man realized he could not outrun the tiger, he caught hold of a vine and swung over a ledge, confident he was strong enough to hold himself there until the tiger tired and left. Instead, the man looked down and saw a

second

tiger waiting below, its long teeth glistening with spittle. Then, he lifted his gaze and saw two mice—one black, one white—gnawing on the very vine from which he dangled. Nothing he could do would drive away the mice, let alone the tigers. Within arm’s reach lay a strawberry. The man plucked it and ate it. How sweet it tasted.

Of course, here in America, we have little to fear from hungry tigers and homicidal mice, at least not the literal kind. But the mortality and vulnerability of our current situation are nothing new. They were always there; we just needed a reminder. Likewise, present circumstances remind us of those very same bonds of fellowship that we probably took for granted before, not to mention the beauty we were likely too distracted to notice: the shadows of the bicyclists bending over parked cars, the dance of the leaves along the branches, the pages of books—both written and unwritten—waiting to be opened.

Thank you for reading. We’re glad you’re here.

Michael Meyerhofer

Poetry Editor

THIS WEEK AT ATTICUS REVIEW

BOOK REVIEWSOUTH OF HEAVEN, NORTH OF HELLA Review of A SINKING SHIP IS STILL A SHIP by Ariel Franciscofrom Burrow PressReview by J.B. Stone"...captures the cringeworthy imagery of being a NY transplant in the 'Sunshine State.'"GET THE BOOKREAD THE REVIEW

FICTIONTWO STORIESby Anthony Varallo "His daughter was in her room, drawing butterflies or designing houses or doing taxes or making those little plastic headbands with the sequins the father could never figure out how to glue on right."READ ON

POETRYJUSTICE OF THE PEACEby William Notter"I spent a lifetime learning how to workthis Ozark stone, where to find the grainand color that’s right for every job,where to hit a slab and make it cleave."READ ON

CREATIVE NONFICTIONPURE FANTASYby Uzodinma Okehi"...there has to be some way to bridge the gap. The existential stuff, between that and all the BS pulp entertainment we’ve grown up on, that we were both still fascinated by."READ ON

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