November/December 2024 

“The writer doesn’t write for the reader. He doesn’t write for himself, either. He writes to serve . . . something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness—those exquisite, enveloping, protecting wings.” ― Joy Williams

From the Publishing-Editor of Hubris: Our November/December 2024 issue opens with poetry by Joshua Michael Stewart and Amy Pence, selected and introduced by Hubris’s Poetry Editor, Claire Bateman. The Rev. Robin White, next, writes of close encounters with “Uncle Joe” and then-candidate Kamala Harris. This winter, Culinarian Diana Farr Louis returns to us with an essay about retreating to heal (and a recipe for Greek winter comfort food, Youvarlakia). Kathryn E. Livingston follows, with a remembrance of her mother. Dr. Skip Eisiminger files one of his always-diverting essays-cum-compilations on integrity, Ross Konikoff tells us how he handles the barrage of bots on Meta, Dr. Guy McPherson addresses global warming through the lens of the Bigheaded Ant, and Elizabeth Boleman-Herring reprises a column first published here in early November of 2016, “Our Evil, Our Shadow, Our Trump.” Our Winter 2024 issue closes with single-panel cartoons by Mark Addison Kershaw.

About the Home Page Artist for the November 2024 issue of Hubris: Says Easton, Pennsylvania-based painter, weaver, and printmaker Elizabeth Snelling, “Color is the first thing you notice about my figure, still life, and landscape paintings. I paint and draw the details of life, the places I live and have lived: rooms, rugs, patterns, and furniture are interpreted over and over again. Visually democratic, I paint landscapes like interiors and interiors like landscapes. The backyard that I plant and tend is just as compelling as the drama of Nova Scotia vastness. Pets and people populate my work and are equally expressive, awkward and casual. I think of myself as a narrative painter. I like to use animals, people and scale to tell a story. I enjoy placing them together in unusual ways to upset the usual order of things so people have to think about the picture, and themselves, in a way that surprises them.” She continues, “I am a painter of domestic life. Objects, light, textiles, the yard, and garden. The still life is a springboard for color. I’m influenced by the frescoes of Pompeii, the 1700 Dutch painters of interiors and family life, Bonnard, and Jane Freilicher. I enjoy playing with scale, making very large pictures of common objects and, conversely, very small paintings of interiors. It’s all autobiographical, manipulation of color, scale, and form to tell a story.” After earning her B.A. in English Literature from Mount Holyoke College, Snelling studied etching at Pratt Manhattan, painting at The Art Students League, and weaving with Peggy Osterkamp. In the early 1990s, she continued her weaving studies with The Friends of Finnish Handicrafts and printing at The Philadelphia College of Science and Textiles. She has shown extensively: at the Ahlum Gallery, J. Lima Gallery, Connexions, and Laini’s Little Shop in Easton, Pennsylvania; Ambre Studio and eDavid Gallery in Bethlehem; LITM Gallery in Newark and Riverbank Arts in Stockton, New Jersey. Access her website at www.elizabethsnelling.com, follow her on Instagram here, and on Meta, here.

Speculative Friction

“The Poetry of Joshua Michael Stewart & Amy Pence,” By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—Poet Joshua Michael Stewart is the author of Break Every String (Hedgerow Books, 2016), The Bastard Children of Dharma Bums (Human Error Publishing, 2020), and Love Something (Main Street Rag, 2022). His work has appeared in Modern Haiku, Massachusetts Review, Rattle, Salamander, Brilliant Corners, 100-Word Story, New Flash Fiction Review, and many other places. Born and brought up in Sandusky, Ohio, Stewart has lived in New England for over 30 years, currently in Ware, Massachusetts. Stewart has worked as a counselor helping individuals with mental disabilities for over 25 years. (Read more . . .)

Wing + Prayer

“Before the Ides of November,” By Rev. Robin White

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—I remember waking up the morning of 9 November 2016 after a fitful night, my feeling of despair and grief and rage as deep as though I had just learned of a loved one’s unexpected death. I turned on the TV, hoping that something had changed, that some mistake had been made . . . or that, perhaps, it had all been just a nightmare, not real, a trumped up lie foisted on a gullible electorate. (Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds” all over again.) But there it was. There she was, giving her concession speech. I raged, I wailed, I cried so hard I hyperventilated. Just the day before, I had proudly and gleefully worn a pantsuit to the polls. Just the night before, I had made tacos for dinner, referencing Trump proxy Marco Gutierrez’s “there’ll be a taco truck on every corner” assertion. (Read more . . .)

Eating Well Is The Best Revenge

“Paean to An Athenian Hospital,” By Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—Ever since I stopped scratching the skin off half my body, I’ve been itching to tell this tale. It all started in the winter when my back started sprouting little red spots—you know, right between the shoulder blades, which are often tantalizingly out of reach. Naturally, I went to see a dermatologist, the first of four. She was perhaps the worst, telling me to “avoid histamines.” I had never heard of histamines, only antihistamines, and it had never occurred to me to inquire what those familiar antiallergy pills might be working against. So, Google to the rescue, and I discovered that histamines exist in or are provoked by almost all foods. So, this would mean a starvation diet without determining what I might be allergic to. (Read more . . .)

Words and Wonder

“Yes, Virginia . . . I Still Hear You,” By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—I’m aware that not everyone has—or has had—a great relationship with their mother but mine was my dearest friend (though there were certainly things I didn’t tell her—like where I really went instead of to the high school dance!). She was also humble and private and would not want me to write about her.  But . . . sorry not sorry, Mom. I always was a bit naughty. My mother, whose name was Virginia, died a few weeks before our country’s infamous 9/11—of amyloidosis, a rare and in her case fatal disease. Though I was devastated by the loss I was also grateful that she was not alive when the terrorist attack occurred. (Read more . . .)

Skip the B.S.

“‘Hello,’ He Lied. ‘Shut Up,’ She Explained: Integrity,” By Dr. Skip Eisiminger, aka The Wordspinner

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—I was about seven when I found a quarter on the cloakroom floor of the Sunday school Mother insisted I attend. After placing a dime of my allowance in the offering, I figured the quarter was God’s way of repaying my unblemished attendance. I was fine with my windfall until she found the coin in the wash. “Where’d you get this?” she demanded. “Sunday school—I found it on the floor.” “Put it in the offering plate next week. In the meantime, go to your room and think about what you’ve done.” I thought hard about my quarter, but I knew that look she’d given me, so I told her I was sorry. Some 60 years later, Dad told me the following story. (Read more . . .)

West Side Stories

“My Lovely Face (-Book),” By Ross Konikoff

MANHATTAN New York—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—Lately, I’ve been under siege, buried beneath a surfeit of friend requests from individuals with very suspicious sounding names, their text worded in a strange “auto-translated” style, e.g. “The charm of music is that you can never tire of listening to it, it makes people feel comfortable, and it can also relieve stress. Because of its regular melody, it makes people feel very rational, but at the same time it is rational and has an emotional impulse. Do you feel the same way? I believe we have many common views. If you are interested, you can leave me a message so that we can discuss further.” With trenchant analysis like that, how could you resist the urge to run to this woman, take her in your arms and never let go? (At least not until she starts squirming.) (Read more . . .)

Planetary Hospice

“Lions, Elephants, Zebras, Buffalo, Ants & Whistling Thorn Trees,” By Dr. Guy McPherson

BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—A headline in Popular Science of 25 January 2025 reads: “Invasive ants leave lions scrambling for prey on the savannah in an ecological chain reaction.” And here’s the subhead: “One insect has led to a cascade of consequences.”The opening paragraph, citing a renowned peer-reviewed journal, provides an overview: “Lions, elephants, zebras, buffalo, ants, and trees are all locked in an intricate ecological web in one Kenyan nature preserve. But that web is unraveling as a small invader disrupts the natural balance of things, according to a study published on January 24 in the journal Science.” The small invader mentioned in the article is a species of ant. Specifically, an aggressive and predatory species called the big-headed ant is displacing the native acacia ants. (Read more . . .)

Hapax Legomenon

“Our Evil, Our Shadow, Our Trump: 2016-2024,” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

PETIT TRIANON Florida—(Hubris)—November 2016—A woman I know (let’s call her Cora) put down her animal companion this past week, a blind, deaf Great Dane (let’s call him Wotan), acquired from a shelter here in Florida. Wotan was, perhaps, the love of Cora’s life. The dog bonded with Cora, who rescued him, fed him, and attended to his special needs, but never with the other members of his and Cora’s little “tribe,” her husband, children, and small grandchildren. To these others, Wotan became a clear and present danger. Eventually, no “other of her tribe” was permitted to approach Cora without Wotan’s threatening her or him with physical harm, and he was a very large dog. Cora’s husband, finally, put his foot down, and the woman who had rescued Wotan as a terribly handicapped puppy, and whom the dog trusted, alone in the world, chose to end his life. (Read more . . .)

Addison

“At Least We Can Feel Insignificant Together,” By Mark Addison Kershaw

ATLANTA Georgia—(Hubris)—November/December 2024—Editor’s Note: By the time you cast an eye over Mark Addison Kershaw’s November/December 2024 batch of cartoons, the United States’ presidential election my well have been decided, we may have a final body count following Helene and Milton (or as final as we’re likely to get), Halloween will have passed, and Thanksgiving and Christmas will be on the horizon (along with, perhaps, rioting in the nation’s streets). At least that’s how it looks from where I sit here, a blue, blue dot in a red, red state. Mark’s over yonder a bit in Georgia, where things have been trending purplish of late. By mid-November, we’ll know whether that purple haze comprised swamp gas, or something more lasting. (Read more . . .)

Our August/September 2024 Issue

On the Other Hand

“What, Pray, is The Heart?” By Anita Sullivan

EUGENE Oregon—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—Recently, I began a study of the spiritual practice known as the Enneagram. As with most spiritual disciplines, each session begins with a series of breathing exercises designed to slow and clear the mind and to focus attention on the immediate moment—what is here right now. This is called Mindfulness. In this particular teaching, it was called “Being Present with your Heart.” Unfortunately, no matter how much I trust and believe that focused breathing is a good idea, my quirky personal logic always reacts the same way to these exercises. Rather than bringing me, body and mind, into an emotionally neutral, open and relaxed state, the preliminary breathing ritual ramps up my attention once again to the odd fragility and raw uncertainty of this natural process. (Read more . . .)

Planetary Hospice

“Amor Fati & Memento Mori,” By Dr. Guy McPherson

BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—One of the commands I give myself daily is the short Latin phrase, “Amor fati.” This phrase means “Love of one’s fate.” It’s an order from me to me. If you like, it can be an order from you to yourself. The calendar on my telephone reminds me twice each day: Amor fati. The reminder comes each morning and each afternoon. Amor fati describes an attitude of accepting and even embracing everything that happens in life. It demands that one must embrace suffering and loss, along with favorable events. Amor fati indicates that we cannot erase our past. Rather, we must accept the good and the bad. We must have the strength to handle the mistakes we make, along with our acts rooted in wisdom. (Read more . . .)

Speculative Friction

“The Poetry of John Pursley III,” By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—John Pursley III teaches contemporary literature and poetry at Clemson University, where he also directs the annual Clemson Literary Festival. He is the author of the poetry collection, If You Have Ghosts, as well as the chapbooks A Story without Poverty, and A Conventional Weather, among others. In addition, he is an assistant editor of the South Carolina Review. His poems and reviews have appeared in Poetry, AGNI, Colorado Review, Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. Pursley writes, “As someone burdened/blessed with a heavily critical, editorial mind, I find that too much intentionality hinders my creative ability to generate new work, which has always been the story of my writing life. (Read more . . .)

Wing + Prayer

“Up a New Crick,” By Rev. Robin White

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—The ditch along the road in front of the house had been “landscaped” with gorgeous river rock. Those rocks, however, had become inundated with weeds over the years since the initial landscaper has done his work, and, since I don’t use chemical weed killers, I needed to find a creative way to approach the 3-foot-wide and 80-foot-long ditch of stone now knee-deep in tenacious and thorny weeds. Early in the spring of this year, I began digging out and moving, by hand and by barrow, those mud-covered, weed-entangled stones—some as large as boulders; others as small as quarter-sized pebbles. Our curving concrete driveway had never afforded vehicles a straight shot to the street. (Read more . . .)

Plant People

“Of Bulb Lawns & Fancy Grass: A Deep Southern Garden Designer Weighs In,” By Jenks Farmer

COLUMBIA South Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—“Stop. Take a break. You’ve been doing this for two hours,” Jennifer said. She wore a black dress and heels in the sweltering August heat. A new Southerner, a recent New Yorker, Jennifer was still adjusting to her new home. She didn’t quite understand this wake or reception—whatever you call the afterparty of a Southern funeral—or why it was held in the hot, crispy yard. Another mourner stepped up to shake my hand, but Jennifer turned him away. “He needs a minute. We’re going to get some water,” she said, leading me away. Head down, I watched my shiny black shoes crunching tan grass. (Read more . . .)

Waking Point

“Encounter,” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISO California—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—The bridge shuddered beneath her feet. Leila wasn’t sure if it was the wind, the rushing traffic behind her, or her own heart that caused it. It was her third time standing at the rail, staring across the green waters of the bay at the luminous city beyond. My third and final time, she thought. But glancing down at the waves heaving against the carnelian buttresses of the Golden Gate Bridge, she lost all certainty. Tears stung her eyes. Was it fear or disgust at her cowardice? She shivered and drew her coat tighter around her thin frame. “Beautiful city.” Startled by the deep voice, Leila glanced briefly at the tall, lean man who stood beside her, his elbows propped on the railing, gazing out at the city, and quickly looked away, following the direction of his gaze. Perhaps if she ignored him, he’d leave. (Read more . . .)

Words & Wonder

“Looking for Lattes,” By Kathryn E. Livingston

FLETCHER North Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—The most expeditious way to get to Asheville, North Carolina from my home in New Jersey is a direct, two-hour flight out of Newark Airport. For some inane reason, however, my husband and I prefer to drive. Of course, we’ve been to plenty of places where this isn’t an option (Hong Kong comes to mind). But a trip to North Carolina to visit family in our RAV4 Hybrid seemed quite do-able. We know because we’ve done it before. It took two days there and two days back, due to the necessity of sleep (we are no longer of an age for all-nighters), with a number of stops for gas, coffee (decaf only; I’m literally allergic to caffeine), lunch, dinner, etc., but our journey to my sister’s home in Fletcher began auspiciously enough. (Read more . . .)

Skip the B.S.

“Vital Fictions: Superstitions,” By Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—From St. Augustine to Wallace Stevens, superstition has been variously defined as an excessive belief, a modification of an earlier belief, an error, or in Stevens’ phrase, “a necessary fiction.” I’ll leave it to you, Gentle Reader, to decide which of these four definitions suits the following story. During World War II, natives on the Melanesian islands of the South Pacific watched in astonishment as “silver birds” of debatable origins dropped all manner of useful goods on those below. Light-skinned “aliens” in green clothing and black boots collected most of the “cargo,” but the bundles that hung up in the trees or dropped in the sea were left for anyone who was desperate enough to retrieve them. (Read more . . .)

Fairly Unbalanced

“At the Top of My Little Cishet Lungs,” By Michael Tallon

ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—Back in high school, one of my best friends had an older brother with all the coolest music. While most of our peers were listening to Hall and Oates, Phil Collins, and Culture Club, we were off on a wild journey with Xavier Cugat, the Kinks, the Horseflies, the Buzzcocks, the Minutemen, the Sex Pistols, and various Brian Eno projects. When we’d hang out, the record selection would bounce from Donovan to Blotto, to the Velvet Underground, to Bluegrass, to Frank Zappa, to Punk to whatever else was on the stacks all inside a few hours. It was a brilliantly fertile way to crack open a skull and pour the larger world inside—and since the artist who most broadened my world is celebrating his 73 birthday this summer, I figured I’d send out some love. (Read more . . .)

Desperado Shindig

“The Less I Do, The Better I Get,” By Ted Jouflas

PHOENIX Arizona—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—My work in comics is very rarely, if ever written about. Not to say that it never is, but years can pass between mentions in the press, on websites, or in a tweet. I certainly don’t Google my name hoping to discover a buzz. That idea makes about as much sense to me as sitting down to a family dinner at 16 while peaking on a hit of Windowpane. This might be OK if you’re fairly immune to peer pressure, or if you simply must be certain that your sister really is a hybrid creature, part Bunny Rabbit, part Mariana Fruit Bat. (Read more . . .)

Addison

“Naked Came the Stranger & Stranger,” By Mark Addison Kershaw, Resident Cartoonist

ATLANTA Georgia—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—Cartoonist Mark Addison Kershaw’s getting off easy this summer: we’ve had two double-issues, and I’ve only managed to nag a total of seven cartoons out of him (for your and my viewing pleasure). I’ve titled this portfolio as I have because Kershaw does have a penchant for including appealing little naked individuals (usually soft-of-center and bespectacled) in his ‘toons. There are three of such featuring the unclothed in this late summer’s grouping, but my favorite portrays naked Kershawians in hell, one of them raising his hand and asking, “Permission to speak freely?” (Read more . . .)

Clicks & Relativity

“Impromptu Portraits & Shared Humanity,” By Chiara-Sophia Coyle

SONOMA California—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—This summer, photographer and multi-cultural life coach Chiara-Sophia Coyle, who has traveled extensively from her bases in Sonoma, California and Mykonos, Greece (which will always be, for her, home), has compiled a portfolio of people she has photographed, all over the world. As she says, “These impromptu portraits offer glimpses into the everyday activities of people of all ages, living in all the many cultures I have stepped into over the years. We are all unique and beautiful beings who embody and express the essence of our shared humanity, and my wish for the world is that we all embrace each other fully on all levels, appreciating how we make each other whole.” (Read more . . .)

Nothing At All to Write Home About 

“Simple Greek Village Life,” By Matt Barrett

CARRBORO North Carolina & KEA Greece—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—I am a victim of Greek Village Restaurant Syndrome. Anyone who has spent more than a week in a small Greek village knows what this is. You have three restaurants in the village, all in the square within view of each other. One restaurant is good, one is bad, and one is OK. Someone who is a tourist will find the good one, hopefully, and will settle on that and never eat at the others. For tourists, life is easy and they have no awareness of the complications that we “locals” must endure. But for us, we can’t just eat at the “good” restaurant because, in the village, everything is interconnected and everyone sees what is going on, especially in the restaurant of your competitor right next door. (Read more . . .)

Hapax Legoumenon

“On the Road, Again,” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring, Publishing Editor

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—August/September 2024—The essay that follows here was written upon the publication of Patrick Leigh Fermor’s Between the Woods and the Water, and was initially published in The Athenian: Greece’s English-Language Monthly; then collected in Greek Unorthodox: Bande à Parte & A Farewell to Ikaros. On the 8^th of December, 1933, Patrick Leigh Fermor, then all of 18 and characterized by his former (and precipitously ex-) public school house-master as a “dangerous mixture of sophistication and restlessness,” set out from Tower Bridge alone to walk to Constantinople. (Read more . . .)