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March 2025
From the Publishing-Editor of Hubris: This March (dare we call it spring?) Hubris welcomes aboard New Contributor Chris Jordan, who writes, “As our collective shadow side grows and amplifies, the mind risks turning further toward cynicism, egoism, and disconnection. What is the antidote to help us stay in contact with our humanity, to find cultural balance, and contain our rage, grief, and the anxiety of our own powerlessness? In the frame of these questions, I have come around slowly, even reluctantly, to acknowledge the transformative power of beauty.” This month, we are honored to share with readers the first portfolio of Jordan’s beauty-drenched works. This month, too, after a hiatus, Resident Cartoonist Mark Addison Kershaw returns to us with single-panel cartoons that contribute what is perhaps as essential to us now as beauty: humor. Michael Tallon and Jenks Farmer, from Guatemala and South Carolina, respectively, look back on men who have enriched their lives. Hubris’s Poetry Editor, Claire Bateman follows, introducing the poetry of John Lane. Wordspinner Skip Eisiminger, as spring returns to America’s East Coast, composes an homage to Sol Invictus. And the editor hereabouts, Elizabeth Boleman-Herring, can do no better than continue her disquisition on Les Objets Trouvés de Facebook Marketplace. We close with a homily from the Reverend Robin White, inspired by Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s appeal for mercy, directed to “47”—How better to end? How better to continue, for the next four years?
About the Home Page Artist for the March 2025 issue of Hubris: Roland Topor (January 7, 1938—April 16, 1997) was a French polymath known for his work in illustration, cartooning, comic art, painting, novel writing, playwriting, film and TV writing, filmmaking, and acting. His art is often associated with surrealism and he was a part of the Panic Movement, alongside Alejandro Jodorowsky and Fernando Arrabal. Born in 1938 in France, Topor lived in Savoy, and studied at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. His works have been exhibited in museums such as the LVR-LandesMuseum Bonn, the Kunstmuseum Wolfsburg, and the Universalmuseum Joanneum. Topor was responsible for the odd visual style of the Czech/French animated sci-fi feature “La Planète Sauvage” (1973). He also collaborated with Federico Fellini, making drawings featured in the film “Casanova” (1975). As a screenwriter, Topor wrote the silent comedy “La Fille du garde-barrière” (1975) and, with his friend Henri Xhonneaux, the film “Marquis” (1989), about the Marquis De Sade. (Topor also worked as an actor, his most famous part being Renfield in Werner Herzog’ s Nosferatu: Phantom der Nacht). He created the puppet show “Téléchat,” which ran for two years on French station Antenne 2 with 234 episodes, and wrote the novel The Tenant (Le Locataire chimérique, 1964), which was adapted for film by Roman Polanski in 1976. Twenty years before his death, Topor composed “100 Reasons to Kill Myself Right Now,” a catalogue now devilishly hard to run to earth on the internet . . . but I managed to find them on Cocosse.com. A few entries are: No. 24) At last, a starring role!; No. 45) To preserve the mystery surrounding me; and No. 73) To keep from ripping myself off as I get older, like de Chirico. Read all 100 here. Find Topor’s artworks for sale on artnet, Gallery MC, and artsy, among other sites/galleries.
Beauty Emerging
“Beauty as a Three-Dimensional Container,” By Chris Jordan
PATAGONIA Chile—(Hubris)—March 2025—How do we face the dark realities of the human world? As the distance between how things could have been and how they are actually going widens every day, how do we bear the rage, terror, disappointment, and grief that threaten to overwhelm us like a tidal wave? For me at least, one thing feels certain: turning away is not an acceptable response. Our collective shadow affects all of us on the deepest unconscious channels, and to really know and feel this seems imperative as part of living an authentic life. And at the same time, the mind can zoom itself out like an astronaut observing the Earth from space and see that in every moment the world is an incomprehensibly complex and amazing miracle. (Read more . . .)
Addison
“Next Sign from God: 253 Miles,” By Mark Addison Kershaw, Cartoonist in Residence
ATLANTA Georgia—(Hubris)—March 2025—When Mark Addison Kershaw takes a hiatus from his corner table (with its view of all the doors, aka avenues of escape) at Hubris, I suit up in my ashes and sackcloth (a coarsely woven fabric, usually made of goat’s hair) and cover the mirrors with black crepe. I really do feel his absence when he goes dark over there in Georgia. Yes, I know things suck in America and, perhaps especially, in the wretched, red-state South that Mark and I both inhabit. But if I have to stand watch, can he not spell me every few months? Spell me, and you, Gentle Reader? It might help if y’all wrote him a note every now and then, which you can do at this magazine (scroll down below all else in this very column). (Read more . . .)
Skip the B.S.
“Traveling Among the Spheres Where the Music Has Stopped: Sol,” By Dr. Skip Eisiminger, aka The Wordspinner
CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—As a recently confirmed, olive-complected boychild of about 13, I had a brief, solipsistic notion that not only was my shadow tailing me, but so was the Sun. If Jesus was the son of God, I wondered, why couldn’t I be the son of Sol? No matter how I turned, the sun shone its spotlight on me like some Hollywood star basking in the klieg lights. I first noticed this solar attention at my Uncle Ted’s swimming pool, and when I mentioned it to my sisters, they thought I was barmy. “Look,” snarky Karen said, rising from her towel, “it’s following me, too!” Her point was well taken, but I was slow to accept it, for my belief made me “bulletproof.” (Read more . . .)
Speculative Friction
“The Excursions & Ephemerals of Poet John Lane,” By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor
GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—Poet John Lane has been writing and publishing poetry for some 50 years. For over 30 years, he taught writing at such places as UVA, the Interlochen Arts Academy, the Fine Arts Center in Greenville, the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts, and, for over 30 years, at Wofford College. Lane was born in North Carolina but Spartanburg, South Carolina, his mother’s ancestral homeland, is where he has lived most of his life. Soon after college, he was a Hoyns Fellow at UVA and later completed an MFA in Poetry at Bennington College. (Read more . . .)
Fairly Unbalanced
“Mr. Burns, William Shakespeare & The Eternal Conversation,” By Michael Tallon
ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—March 2025—Though I retired from the profession many years ago, on occasion I’m still asked why I became a teacher. The simple answer is that Mr. Burns, my high school Shakespeare teacher, inspired me to follow in his footsteps. The more dramatic answer is a retelling of the time when King Lear, descending into madness on the moors of my high school classroom, first cracked my skull open with a particularly deft bit of magical compassion and saw some light shining through. For teacher-appreciation day, I’d like to share that story with you. My hometown of Binghamton is a small city in Upstate New York, so it’s no surprise that Mr. Burns, aside from being my teacher, was also a family friend. (Read more . . .)
Plant People
“Planting Tree, Building Ponds, Listening Father,” By Jenks Farmer
COLUMBIA South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—“We’ll plant the cypress grove over here. See? We’ll curve it this way.” I walk along the muddy bank, swinging my arms in a broad curve. “Yeah, I like that. Blends the cypress pond into the garden. Dad’s cottage will go over there, on the point where the lake turns east.” Mac looks to see his Daddy’s reaction, then he keeps on talking. “He’ll have nice morning sun on the porch. But Jenks, the elevation here might be wrong. Squat here. Look at the horizon.” I squat. “I see it. When the earth-moving crew comes back tomorrow, ask them to take this six inches deeper. That’ll keep the cattails from growing.” This conversation is muted by soft gray clay walls of an enormous hole that’s soon to flood and then turn into a lake. (Read more . . .)
Hapax Legoumenon
“Amoir & The Snail Folk (or, Continuing Adventures on Facebook Marketplace),” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—“The only place in the world that nothing has to be explained to me is the South.” I don’t often open a piece of writing with a quote from Woodrow Wilson, but there it is: and the man was right (if his syntax was twisted). Those of us born of Southern mothers may well grow up in Pasadena, California and Athens, Greece, as in my own case, but drop us down into Slabtown, South Carolina or Blue Eye, Alabama, and, like Br’er Rabbit in the briar patch, we know ourselves to be at home. In the South, everything around us makes sense: as with Cinderella, the shoes fit, however many times we wish they didn’t. (Read more . . .)
Wing + Prayer
“A Soft Answer: (Proverbs 15:1),” By Rev. Robin White
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2025—Two days before my father died, the Hospice chaplain, a short compact man who looked like Saint Nicholas in street clothes, made a pastoral call. Dad had begun his final journey and was at the stage where he wasn’t speaking but was still alert. As St. Nick leaned over the hospital bed to greet him, I stood on the other side of the bed and held Dad’s hand. Dad was not big on visits from religious or “churchy” folk, and I had grown accustomed to serving as his “bouncer,” especially over the course of the two months he had spent on the oncology floor of the Upstate Medical Center in Syracuse. I thought he’d be OK with the Santa Claus guy, though, because he didn’t seem too religious or churchy, but I was still willing to intervene if necessary. (Read more . . .)
Our January/February 2025 Issue
Speculative Friction
“‘Be Water’ by Poet Wendy McVicker,” By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor
GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—Wendy McVicker lives and writes within the curves of the Hocking River, in Athens, Ohio. She served as Athens’ poet laureate from 2020 through 2022 and is a longtime Ohio Arts Council teaching artist. She loves few things more than sharing her love of poetry and collaborating with other artists in a variety of mediums. Her most recent chapbook, Alone in the Burning, was released from Sheila-Na-Gig Editions in November 2024. McVicker shared with us some words about “Be Water”: “A few days after the recent presidential election, I came across Linda Hogan’s poem ‘The Way In’ and was electrified by her line ‘To enter stone, be water.’ In the dispiriting wake of a dispiriting election season, I felt the only sustainable way forward would be to choose kindness and love—the soft power of water—not the obdurate hardness of anger and hate. In this poem, I hope to encourage myself and others who feel the same to persist in the quiet work of rearranging the world, to nourish the earth and those beings who share it with us.” (Read more . . .)
Skip the B.S.
“Beer Goggles vs. Rose-Colored Glasses: Optimism,” By Dr. Skip Eisiminger, aka The Wordspinner
CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—According to Mark Kurlansky, author of Milk! if I’d been breast-fed for a year instead of three days, I’d likely be two to three inches taller and more optimistic. I had a difficult time at 6’ 4” and 210 pounds getting my students to speak; imagine if I’d been 6’ 7”. As for my optimism, I’ve always been an Apollonian sort of fellow; indeed, when teaching four sections of English 101, it’s a vocational requirement. Ironically, the shadow I cast affirmed my sunny temperament. Many years ago, when a dear friend sank into depression, I wrote her: “Dear Kate, From what Hans [her husband] tells me, it sounds as if you’re suffering from ‘the pale cast of thought.’ This is troubling because I’ve always known you as one who took skillet and spatula on every fishing trip. Your optimism impressed me because Hans is no more an angler than I am. So, unpack that skillet and return to your embroidery and the people you love . . . .” (Read more . . .)
Wing + Prayer
“A Spiritual Replacement,” By Rev. Robin White
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—I have a brand-new shoulder. The old one was, shall we say, defective. I couldn’t throw a ball for Scout. Swimming had devolved to a flutter kick wearing a snorkel and flippers; my arms stationary at my sides. I couldn’t raise my arm to retrieve a wine glass from the top of the cupboard or the cookies from the upper shelf of the pantry. Needless to say, I could have lived out the rest of my life with my old shoulder. I could have continued to compensate for its immobility but, when someone offered a replacement with the near certainty of a return to full range of motion, well, for me, it was an easy decision. At present, I am three weeks out of surgery and composing this with my left hand only. I find I can do much of what I need to do with respect to my daily needs, but everything takes great concentration and a much, much slower pace than I prefer. Putting my socks on, for example, takes immense patience! (Read more . . .)
While I Draw Breath
“From the Ashes of Kenow,” By Kevin Van Tighem
HIGH RIVER, ALBERTA Canada—(Hubris)—January/February 2025―There is a pinch point in the Rocky Mountains chain that geologists call the Lewis Overthrust. It extends across the US-Canada border and includes two of our oldest mountain national parks: Glacier, in Montana, and Waterton Lakes, in Canada. The subterranean paroxysms that gave rise to those western mountains were so powerful here that they pushed slabs of mountain rock over the top of each other, like overlapping dominos, until that shifting rock had buried whole ranges of mountains and foothills. Drive up to the Lewis Overthrust from the east and the effect can be startling: the prairie ends, and the mountains are there. No transition. That orthographic pinch point lies east of a flattening in the landscape: the Columbia plateau. Those two geologies combine to create the perfect storms. Storm after storm; westerly winds sweep inland from the Pacific Ocean and, finding little resistance through the Columbia plateau, pile up against that skinny bit of mountains before spilling over the top and sweeping down to the prairies. (Read more . . .)
Planetary Hospice
“Earth in Hospice,” By Dr. Guy McPherson
BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—For many years, I had a small sign on the bulletin board adjacent to my office door on the campus of a major university: “Keep Expectations High.” I encouraged my students to take on tasks that, to me, seemed impossible. Of course, I did not tell the students the tasks were impossible. Occasionally, I was surprised to discover that the tasks I believed impossible were accomplished by my students. Even when they failed, as they often did, I encouraged and rewarded them for their efforts. Among other factors, adhering to the expectations of others brought us to the brink of extinction. Retaining high expectations, even impossibly high expectations, demands more. It demands that we look within, regardless of the terrors there. It demands that we assume as a given the better human in each of us. It demands better, in every way, from everyone. Failure is assured, of course. (Read more . . .)
Words and Wonder
“Old News,” By Kathryn E. Livingston
BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—At the age of five, I placed a sheet of tracing paper over a page in my Little Golden Book in order to practice forming letters, and ever since writing has been my passion. Though I tried my hand at creative writing, I was later drawn to journalism and reporting: I considered journalism to be a form of service—offering to the public, to the community—facts that would help people live their lives safely and knowledgeably. Ah, the naïveté of youth! And yet, I still believe this. At nine-ish, I produced a one-page “newspaper”; on my street in Schenectady, New York (if memory serves, called The Gillespie Street Gazette, but I can’t swear to that). For a very brief period (because hopscotch and roller skating swiftly won out), I interviewed neighbors, collected data, and kept track of lost cats, potholes, kickball games, and the like. My self-appointed mission was to be accurate, because no reporter wants to be called into an editor’s office due to misleading statements or mistakes (though I was my own editor back then, and I sure didn’t have an office). (Read more . . .)
Nothing at All to Write Home About
“Kostaki, King of the Kamakis,” By Matt Barrett
CARRBORO North Carolina & KEA Greece—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—Kostaki is the uncrowned King of the kamakis. There is no question about it. First of all, I know that you are wondering what a kamaki is. It translates literally as “harpoon,” as in spearfishing. What it means, though, is “Casanova.” It’s practically a profession in Greece. It is seasonal and the pay is meager, but it keeps the young men, and some older ones, busy during the summer. Most of the victims are tourist girls. Actually, all of the victims are tourist girls and many of them would not classify themselves as victims. Many women, mostly from cold Scandinavian countries, come to Greece with the intention of spending their vacation with one, or a few, of these semi-professional, hot-blooded lovers. A trip to Greece without a romantic experience would be an empty one. I have been told that on islands like Rhodes and Kos, where there are hourly flights from Stockholm, Oslo, and Copenhagen, the kamakis are organized. (Read more . . .)
Hapax Legomenon
“Chester Drawers & The Piedmont Hoochie-Coochie: Facebook Marketplace,” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring
PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris))—January/February 2025—For me, it all began with Chester Drawers, but let me go back even further, to another befuddled listener, James Thurber, whose maid, Delia, announced to him one Christmas, “They are here with the reeves.” Perhaps, hereabouts, one always hangs one’s reeves above one’s chester drawers, and one is immediately understood? For anyone dropped down into South Carolina from the North, or farther afield, however, our tendency here to spell it like we hear it takes some getting used to, and even descendants of generations of Upcountry Carolinians and Virginians down our maternal line are, on occasion, flummoxed. It was my “booth partner” at The Rock House Antiques in Greenville, South Carolina (and a similarly pedigreed Southerner of A Certain Age & Native Speaker of Delia’s Tongue), Jeanne van den Hurk, who first introduced me to the addictive and inscrutable charms of local Facebook Marketplace listings, which would become one source of antiques and collectibles for our little business—if we could figure out what was being advertised for sale (and if we wanted such a thing). (Read more . . .)
Won Over By Reality
“Bubbles for a New Year,” By Tim Bayer
FAIRPORT New York—(Hubris)—January/February 2025—I wanted to help everyone start the new year with a smile. This is a quick post to share on this first day of 2025. Emily and I have discouraged Bubbles from barking when she wants something. Instead, of barking or whining (which we also discouraged) Bubbles has found another way to communicate that makes me laugh. With help from Bubbles, Happy New Year! (Read more . . .)
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