lookingglass
|
Through the "Looking Glass," readers are invited to dig deeper into our issues as contributors share reflections on their work. Specifically, "Looking Glass" provides a sort of parlor where authors and artists reveal the genesis of their pieces, as well as provide meta-discursive insight into their textual and visual creative works. Issue 33 Reflections
Read on for reflections by select authors and artists
on the genesis and craft of their pieces in Glassworks and then read the full issue online! |
Maria Pianelli Blair
"Autumn Hymn" | "Fragile" | "Wealth and Women Out of Gold"
There's a strange period of reflection between weeks 38 and 39 of pregnancy. Labor can strike at any moment and then, in the blink of an eye, your life is changed forever. And while the last 9 months are marked by ceaseless waiting, there's a palpable excitement and terror that settles in those last two weeks. Time is endless and precious all at once. During this strange, magical span, I found myself hyper focused on creation. "Autumn Hymn" and "Wealth and Women Out of Gold" were born during this in-between. Both reflect a longing for the surreal, dreamscapes, a place of refuge during such seismic shifts. "Fragility" was also assembled during this period. At a crossroads of my life, it explores familial bonds and the preciousness of time, themes that have become ever present in this new chapter of my life.
Vikki C.
"Queerness of our Species"
|
It is an honour to be part of Issue 33 of Glassworks. I’m also grateful for the opportunity to share a little about the process behind my poem “Queerness of Our Species.” Craftwise, my poetry seeks to blend lyricism with interrogation, to move curiously on the page while considering our relationships with each other and the complex systems we are part of. In this case, the poem’s catalyst was a fascinating article I read about a pair of male penguins that together hatched and raised a chick in captivity—a beautiful example of instinctive, seamless care. Juxtaposed with the harsh reality of their natural habitats, the poem draws parallels with society and how we resist and also embody the laws enacted upon us. “Queerness of Our Species” explores the tensions between tradition and modern pressures, the gender-binary as well as the beauty and strangeness of existence. How dissolving normative structures can open up a sense of wonder and boundlessness. Essentially, the poem aspires to contain an uncontainable world.
|
Ansley Haines
"Searching for Change"
|
I think everyone, or at least the luckiest of us, has experienced the kindness of strangers once, or twice, or perhaps, like me, a thousand times. I write creative nonfiction to explore my own trauma, but I also write it to explore the beauty of humanity—that’s what “Searching For Change” is all about. My life has been lifted and carried by people who care about me, whether for just a moment, years upon years, or somewhere in between—what an honor it has been to experience such generosity.
|
Jennifer Randall Hotz
"After the Miscarriage"
|
“After the Miscarriage” has its origins in my own—and others'—experiences of grief, especially when that grief involves a couple. Often, we wish others would mourn as we do, but each person grieves in their own way (I always need to talk about it; my husband prefers to go outside and uproot every bush in our backyard). A shared loss presents the challenge of honoring each partner’s own journey while also finding ways to connect in the midst of heartbreak.
|
J. Alan Nelson
"Microplastics"
|
I catch myself thinking about microplastics almost daily. Those invisible fragments of plastic slip into everything. They ride in on the water we drink, the food we eat, the air we breathe. I picture them lodging somewhere deep inside, quiet and persistent. I worry. It’s not dramatic panic. It’s just a quiet unease that the modern world has made our bodies a little less ours. I rinse food more carefully, choose glass when I can. But still I think: how much of this have I ingested without knowing? It’s a private grief for a cleaner version of ourselves we will never reclaim.
|
E.B. Schnepp
"In the Land of Milk and Honey" | "We Share in that Appetite"
I think the story of Lazarus is one of the most devastating love stories in the entire world—what do you mean the embodied being / personification of god fell in love with a mortal man, held him so dear that he destroyed / broke / circumnavigated his own laws of the universe that had existed since humans were expelled from Eden in order to raise him from the dead because he could not bear a world without him in it? What does it mean to love someone so much that you bring them back from the grave only to essentially have it mean you can no longer be together?
Lazarus. This dearest friend, the most beloved was not counted among the disciples. Never mentioned after being brought back to life—Jesus didn’t even stay long enough to see him gasp, take that first fresh breath, and maybe he couldn’t. Resurrection as a profoundly selfish act, a devastatingly human act of grief over a separation that instead renders said god irrevocably separated from the same beloved. No temptation in the desert could make him surrender to sin, but the entire order of the universe could be upended for him; the same upending separate them eternally. And then there’s what became of Lazarus himself; he’s never mentioned again after he’s resurrected, no one knows what happened to him after. Different ephemera and/or apocrypha try to resolve him, but I’ve never found anything that feels conclusive. He’s the first vampire, he was crucified or otherwise killed again for going against the natural order, he’s simply still out there somewhere; the question always remains, can man kill what a god personally resurrected?
I’m haunted by all of this. The devotion that brought a man back to life only to be forced to abandon him, the loneliness inherent in that for both the god and the man if differently, the question of a hypothetically endless existence that stretches on in the aftermath of that. It’s just such a fertile place for the imagination.
Lazarus. This dearest friend, the most beloved was not counted among the disciples. Never mentioned after being brought back to life—Jesus didn’t even stay long enough to see him gasp, take that first fresh breath, and maybe he couldn’t. Resurrection as a profoundly selfish act, a devastatingly human act of grief over a separation that instead renders said god irrevocably separated from the same beloved. No temptation in the desert could make him surrender to sin, but the entire order of the universe could be upended for him; the same upending separate them eternally. And then there’s what became of Lazarus himself; he’s never mentioned again after he’s resurrected, no one knows what happened to him after. Different ephemera and/or apocrypha try to resolve him, but I’ve never found anything that feels conclusive. He’s the first vampire, he was crucified or otherwise killed again for going against the natural order, he’s simply still out there somewhere; the question always remains, can man kill what a god personally resurrected?
I’m haunted by all of this. The devotion that brought a man back to life only to be forced to abandon him, the loneliness inherent in that for both the god and the man if differently, the question of a hypothetically endless existence that stretches on in the aftermath of that. It’s just such a fertile place for the imagination.
