June & July 2024
Vol. XIV, Nos. 5 & 6

June & July 2024: Book Excerpt Issue

Dedicated to Sloane Elliott, Hubriss Editors Own First Editor.

“Morning Reflection,” oil on canvas, 2022, by Tomas Watson.
“Morning Reflection,” oil on canvas, 2022, by Tomas Watson.

“An essential portion of any artist’s labor is not creation so much as invocation. Part of the work cannot be made, it must be received; and we cannot have this gift except, perhaps, by supplication, by courting, by creating within ourselves that ‘begging bowl’ to which the gift is drawn.”
Lewis Hyde

From the Publishing-Editor of Hubris: Our Summer 2024 issue is a first for the magazine in that it comprises excerpts from books (published or forthcoming) by our Contributors. We open with  Garden Disruptors: The Rebel Misfits Who Turned Southern Hoticulture on Its Head, by new Contributor Jenks Farmer, whose column, “Plant People,” launches this summer. Helen Noakes, from her forthcoming work of autofiction, Living Dangerously, follows, transporting us back to 1970s Athens, Greece. Next, for bilingual Greek/English-speakers Elizabeth Boleman-Herring shares a slice of Greek Unorthodox: Band à Part & A Farewell To Ikaros. Widely-published Yogini, Kathryn E. Livingston, follows, bringing us Yin, Yang Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace.  Then comes a page from Dr. Skip Eisiminger’s long, literate love letter to his wife, Ingrid; and, from climate scientist Dr. Guy McPherson, a moving, essential chapter from his Killing the Natives: A Retrospective Analysis. Poetry Editor Claire Bateman shares the work of Jennifer Schomberg Kanke, whose book, The Swellest Wife Anyone Ever Had, is forthcoming this coming autumn. Don Schofield excerpts his illustrated memoir of boyhood and manhood, From the Cyclops Cave: A Braided Memoir. Kevin Van Tighem, after his lengthy absence-in-activism, excerpts from Understory: An Ecologist’s Memoir of Loss and Hope, due out this fall. And Michael Tallon, of Guatemala and New York, files a section from his memoir of serious illness, and serious reckoning, Incompatible With Life: A Memoir of Grave Illness & Great Love.

“Crouching Aphrodite,” 2022, by Tomas Watson.
“Crouching Aphrodite,” 2022, by Tomas Watson.

About our Home Page Artist for the June & July 2024 issue of Hubris: British artist Tomas Watson (b. 1971) has consistently found ways to refresh existing forms and infuse them with the vigor of the ever-changing world, combining age-old mastery with an abstract aesthetic. A figurative artist not restricted by realism, he studied at the Slade School of Art in London and won the BP Portrait Award in 1998, but has lived in Greece for most of his career. (Why? “The Greek light,” he says.) Watson’s interest is in form, defined by shadow and light, which makes drawing the backbone of everything he does. Of his recent work, he says, “These paintings are about my life, not in a descriptive or specific sense, but rather in the form of observations that open up the possibility of a deeper, universal meaning.” The painter participates in international art fairs and solo exhibitions, and founded, with his partner, an arts-based educational program on the Greek island of Lesvos (where they and their toddler twins make their home): Sigri Arts Retreat.  (Access Watson’s website here; enquire about Sigri Arts Retreat workshops here; and follow him on Instagram.)

Jenks Farmer book Garden Disruptors
Garden Disruptors: The Rebel Misfits Who Turned Southern Horticulture on Its Head.

Plant People

Emotional Road Trip Back South,” from Garden Disruptors: The Rebel Misfits Who Turned Southern Hoticulture on Its Head,By Jenks Farmer

COLUMBIA South Carolina—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—In Seattle, people hibernate in winter, but it’s the opposite in the South. Winter can be beautiful and active. Summer makes you stop, sit in the shade, go to a movie, or read. Or write. Covid Lockdown Summer turned the world upside down. Plant orders rolled in. But hypocritical politicians “streamlining” the US Post Office hurt our small business and made our work twice as hard. Writing time evaporated. The only thing sitting on the porch and relaxing around here was my book. As I worked, I tried to put the book’s arc and themes together. Driving a tractor ‘round and ‘round a field has always been good story-writing time for me.  Chatting while gardening is great too. I could test transitions and run ideas by Tom and our small crew in an informal setting—a hot, uncomfortable setting where honesty flows freely. (Read more . . .)

Pallas Athena with her spear, against the “dangerous blue light” of Greece. (Photo: Pinterest/Facts.net.)
Pallas Athena with her spear.

Waking Point

“The Goddess & The Knight,” from Living DangerouslyBy Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—From Lycabettus, the second hill at Athens’ center, the view of the Acropolis is unobstructed. Crowning this promontory is a Christian church dedicated to St. George, The Dragon-Slayer and protector of virgins threatened by them. The virgin represented the church and the dragon, paganism. George, like Athena, to whom the Parthenon was dedicated, is depicted carrying a spear. An obedient knight, he used his in service of others, while Athena, an independent goddess, wielded hers as a symbol of her own power—the power of reason to slice through subterfuge. (Read more . . .)

Cover of Greek Unorthodox: Bande à Parte & A Farewell to Ikaros. 
Greek Unorthodox: Bande à Parte & A Farewell to Ikaros.

Hapax Legoumenon

“My Athenian Tough Guy Columns, from Greek Unorthodox: Bande à Parte & A Farewell to Ikaros, By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—The four short (but dense) essays that comprise this Summer 2024 column were written with the help of “My Last but Not Least Greek Husband,” late, Cephalonian-Cairene-Rhodesian photographer Emil Moriannidis, who served as a patient and inspired Beatrice (though I am certainly no Dante) throughout the decade of the 1980s in Athens. Emil—a poet in black and white, as well as in Demotic Greek—and I laughed and scribbled our way through the composition of my four “Manghes (‘Tough Guy’) Columns” featuring the hapless Athenian duo of Harilaos and Lakis. (Read more . . .)

Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman's Quest for Balance, Strength and Inner Peace, by Kathryn E. Livingston
Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace.

Words & Wisdom

“Yin, Yang, Yogini,” from Yin, Yang, Yogini: A Woman’s Quest for Balance, Strength, and Inner Peace, By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—Today, as if she knows I’ve been coming to Yoga for exactly one year, trying to figure out what it’s all about, Jill opens the class by saying, “Why do we come to Yoga? We are here to forget. We come to forget the chatter in our minds, and the doubts and fears and worries, and to put everything aside and go to a quiet place. And . . . we come to remember; to remember that we are perfect, that we are born perfect, without flaws and self-doubts.” She sums it up nicely, precisely what I’ve been trying to figure out this past year. (Read more . . .)

The beauty with the bee-stung lips (in her turquoise bikini).
Ingrid, with the bee-stung lips.

Skip the B.S.

The Blind Pig Who Found a Truffle: Chance,” from Der Liebesbrief to Ingrid, By Dr. Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—In 1961, shortly after I arrived at Heidwinkel/Bahrdorf, my “permanent” duty station in West Germany, I wandered into the company day room where Stan Sanders was showing anyone who was interested in them photographs he’d taken at a recent wedding reception. I knew that our company clerk had married a local woman, and the two were enjoying their honeymoon in the south of France, but I didn’t know either of them very well. Having nothing better to do and thinking I might pick up a few pointers in the dating game, I took a seat and asked, “Who is this, Stan, seated beside Lt. Pfister?” (Read more . . .)

Killing the Natives: A Retrospective Analysis.
Killing the Natives: A Retrospective Analysis.

Planetary Hospice

The Great Dying,” from Killing the Natives: A Retrospective Analysis, By Dr. Guy McPherson

BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—“For people who hate to learn the names of things, the world is getting better every day.” With this minor exception, there are no advantages to extinction. In contrast, there are plenty of disadvantages and, big-budget Hollywood movies notwithstanding, extinction is irreversible. Earth is experiencing its sixth great extinction event, the first one precipitated by the actions of a single species. The great biologist and philosopher Edward O. Wilson said it best in 1992: “Humanity has initiated the sixth great extinction spasm, rushing to eternity a large fraction of our fellow species in a single generation.” (Read more . . .)

Poet Jennifer Schomberg Kanke. (Photo: Denise Wooley.)
Poet Jennifer Schomberg Kanke.

Speculative Friction

The Poetry of Jennifer Schomberg Kanke,By Claire Bateman, Poetry Editor

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—June & July 2024 —The creation of poet Jennifer Schomberg Kanke’s multi-part long poem “Scenes from the Flood,” about the Ohio River Flood of 1937, involved “a balancing of the scholarly and the spiritual,” as the poet describes her writing process. Her goal with the poem was to make readers feel as though they were emerging from a time machine rather than reading a poem, a process that relied heavily on immersing herself in as many stories as possible. (Read more . . .)

Postcard of a Greyhound Scenicruiser, c. 1960.

Imaginations Flavors

Goat-Leaps,” from From the Cyclops Cave: A Braided Memoir, By Don Schofield

THESSALONIKI & ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—No one’s here./Hills, stones, paths—all sleep to the breathing/sea. A place, just a place:/no meaning, no wisdom, no secret loves/or unrevealed purpose. You/an absence. Walking the beach, I feel waves wash over my feet, wet sand press between my toes with each step. In a couple minutes I’ll let them draw me into the water, knee-high, chest-high, then give my whole body to their warmth. I’ll swim out toward that rocky islet beyond Náoussa bay in leisurely sidestrokes, maybe try to reach it, maybe not. (Read more . . .)

The old settlers’ trail now leads families past the Goose Tree to the river. (Photo: Kevin Van Tighem.)
The old settlers’ trail now leads families past the Goose Tree to the river.

While I Draw Breath

The Goose Tree,” from Understory: An Ecologist’s Memoir of Loss and Hope, By Kevin Van Tighem

HIGH RIVER, ALBERTA Canada—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—When we lived in Waterton, our children’s teacher, Lisa Lenz, used to take her students to the story tree, a wind-gnarled poplar at the edge of Waterton Lake where they could look across at the mountain I now try to know by its Blackfoot name, Sakiimaapi, but that the maps call Mount Vimy. Vimy is in France. Sakiimaapi has always been here. While she read them stories they felt God’s breath on their faces, though they didn’t know that’s what it was. On weekends we often drove north, past Pincher Creek and Cowley, to our property beside the Oldman River. There was another story tree there, but I can’t recall ever telling stories beside it. (Read more . . .)

The Heart Displayed, by John Lizars.
The Heart Displayed, by John Lizars.

Fairly Unbalanced

“Chapter 6: The Step-Down Unit, a New Doctor, and
a Diagnosis,” From Incompatible With Life: A Memoir of Grave Illness & Great Love,
 By Michael Tallon

ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—June & July 2024—At midday on March 4, I was transferred to a Step-Down Unit, so named because it was “one step down” from Intensive Care. ICU patients are often intubated or on advanced life support. They are classified as critical or likely to become critical without warning. I was neither intubated nor on advanced life support, but I was on the crumbling edge of an acute crisis. Whether I belonged in an SDU or an ICU is debatable, but a bed became available in the Step-Down Unit first, so that’s where I went. In our SDU, there were four patients. (Read more . . .)

Our April 2024 Issue

Tallon-President Joe Biden with Pope Francis.
President Joe Biden with Pope Francis.

Fairly Unbalanced

Joe Biden: A Good Works Catholic,” By Michael Tallon

ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—April 2024—The elemental construct of the post-Trumpian world is now before us, and the contrasts are stark: We Democrats wish to govern and to make life better for the vast majority of people, so as to justify the continuation of our hegemony. Republicans, on the other hand, hope to stoke a culture war of sufficient volatility so that—once their dark messiah returns from the fetid swamplands—he can ride the prevailing political winds and return them to positions of authority. Only time will tell which strategy will find purchase with the electorate. There is another front to this war, too. To wit: Who will be allowed to participate in the political process in the first place. Republicans wish to limit the franchise, to maximize their chances of success. Democrats wish to ease restrictions on voting, so as to maximize theirs. (Read more . . .)

Home for Christmas, 1944. (Photo: Office for Emergency Management. Office of War Information. Overseas Operations Branch.)
Home for Christmas, 1944.

Skip the B.S.

The Loin & The Limb: Peace,” By Dr. Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—April 2024—Browsing a file folder of family photographs my aunt Clarice had left me, I came across two that I found unforgettable. I pulled these two out and assembled a small, translucent diptych which now occupies a prominent place in my study. The left half consists of a picture taken on the day my father left Camp Gordon, Georgia for the war in Germany. Major Eisiminger is in full combat gear, and I’m standing beside him with a thumb in my mouth wearing his helmet liner. I’m almost three years old and most likely have no idea what is happening. I certainly have no memory of it. On the back of this photograph, Mother wrote, “October 22, 1944, Daddy and Skipper [me], my world.” Five days later, she wrote on the same picture, “Oct. 27, 1944, I’m sick. I just sold the rattler [our old car].” (Read more . . .)

Poets Cathy Cultice Lentes & Wendy McVicker. (Photo: Lynette Peck). 
Poets Cathy Cultice Lentes & Wendy McVicker.

Speculative Friction

The Poetry of Wendy McVicker & Cathy Cultice Lentes,” By Claire Bateman

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—April 2023—Wendy McVicker, 2020-2022 Poet Laureate of Athens, Ohio, is a longtime Ohio Arts Council teaching artist. Her books include Zero, a Door (2021), Sliced Dark (a collaboration with visual artist John McVicker, 2019) and The Dancer’s Notes (2015). She loves collaborating with other artists and performs with instrumentalist Emily Prince under the name another language altogether whenever she gets the chance. Stronger When We Touch is her first full-length collaboration with another poet. Cathy Cultice Lentes recently retired from teaching and working with students with disabilities as part of the Special Education/Psychology team in Meigs County, Ohio. In 2016, she published a poetry chapbook, Getting the Mail (Finishing Line Press). In addition to poetry, Lentes writes creative nonfiction and a variety of works for children. She earned her MFA in Writing for Young People from the Solstice Program in 2013 (Read more . . .)

Virginia and “Brother,” c. 1925.
Virginia and “Brother,” c. 1925.

Words & Wonder

“Pass the Gravy, Please,” By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—April 2024—Back in the day, my parents were always warning about calamities and tragedies waiting to happen if I didn’t look both ways when I crossed the street; if they weren’t vigilant and we had fish for supper there was a good chance I’d choke on a bone.  If I went outside without mittens (frostbite, for sure), or got in a boat without a life preserver, or developed a cough, certainly my demise was near. I ended up mocking them (not to their faces, at least not until my teen years) as they’d screech, “Be careful!” every time our screen door slammed behind me. Laughing about their fear was one way of dealing with it. But it didn’t explain their anxiety, and I never really made much of an effort to understand it, that is, until this morning.  I woke up today thinking about my Uncle Ray, who had been a bombardier in the Army Air Forces during World War Two. (Read more . . .)

George Carlin, 1975. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons/Little David Records.) 
Comedian George Carlin, 1975.

Planetary Hospice

“As We Go, So Goes Earth,” By Dr. Guy McPherson

BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—April 2024—You may perhaps be familiar with comedian George Carlin’s routine, The Planet is Fine, a piece which is brought to my attention at least once a week. In it, Carlin’s main point is that the planet isn’t going anywhere; we are. He implies that Earth isn’t on its last metaphorical legs; rather, it’s our species that’s going extinct—an event that will have little or no impact on non-human organisms. Today’s short Hubris essay addresses (and shoots down) Carlin’s thesis. (Spoiler Alert: I will probably refer to it in response to the many ignorant messages I receive, day to day.) And, just to be clear, I am not claiming that ignorance is a universally bad state of affairs. After all, we are all ignorant about many things. I am ignorant about many things, a reality I attempt to modify, by learning stuff, on a daily basis. (Read more . . .)

The author on Patmos, summer 1972, starting to explore Greece. 
The author on Patmos, summer 1972.

Eating Well Is the Best Revenge

“Homage to a Philhellenic Anniversary,” By Diana Farr Louis

ATHENS Greece—(Hubris)—April 2024—(Editor’s Note: This column first ran in Hubris in June 2022.) By the time you read this, I will be drinking a glass of champagne—not retsina—to celebrate the 50th anniversary of my arrival in Greece as a permanent resident. Looking back over all that has happened since the 4th of June, 1972, it seems I was extraordinarily fortunate in that roll of the dice that sent me here. It didn’t look like it at the time, since the whole chain of events started with a near fatal car accident that landed me in the Mass General Hospital a week after graduation from high school, instead of Radcliffe College that September. But if everything had gone according to plan, and I’d enjoyed a summer of deb parties and four years of normal college, cossetted by the companionship of girls and boys I already knew, I would never have met the first-year, half-Greek Cliffie who invited me to “her island” the summer that I graduated, a year later than originally scheduled. (Read more . . .)

Our March 2024 Issue

Former Confederate President Jefferson Davis, his family, and his servant pose for a portrait in Beauvoir, Mississippi. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons.)
The Jefferson Davis family, and a “servant.”

Hapax Legomenon

Trump’s Taterhill Hat: Our Continuing, Of Necessity, Un-Civil American War,By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2024—Blood has already been spilled in the second phase of the ongoing American Civil War. On January 6, 2021, many of us here in South Carolina were thinking back on April 12, 1861: the combatants’ uniforms were different, this time around, but the faces of “the Confederates” looked eerily familiar. They might have been my maternal cousins. I was living, briefly, in central Florida during the run-up to the 2016 presidential election, and, at some point before Clinton won the Democratic primary, my eldest maternal first cousin phoned me from South Carolina. Edward (I’ll call him Edward) was born in Greer and has never lived anywhere else. I, on the other hand, for what it’s worth, have a fair number of canceled passports, from several countries. (Read more . . .)

Rev. Robin White, Presbyterian Church of Dover, Delaware, a decade after her ordination. 
Rev. Robin White, Presbyterian Church of Dover.

Wing + Prayer

Frisbees, Graham’s Number & My Statement of Faith,By Rev. Robin White

PENDLETON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2024—In 1986, as someone seeking ordination as minister of word and sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA), I was required to write a “Statement of Faith,” which I would need to present to a sub-committee of Donegal Presbytery and then to the entire Presbytery (made up of ordained ministers and elders in that particular geographical region of Pennsylvania) for approval. At the time, I was just 25, and even after three years of theological seminary, still very, very uncertain about what I believed. I was resistant to dogma and, quite honestly, hesitant to “define my faith,” knowing full well that whatever I believed on any given day, might and probably would be revised on the next. That I embodied a faith that was ever-changing was the one thing I could be certain of. (Read more . . .)

Pages from the notebooks of Edward Abbey. (Photo: University of Arizona Special Collections.)
From the notebooks of Edward Abbey.

Planetary Hospice

Killing While Dying,By Dr. Guy McPherson

BELLOWS FALLS Vermont—(Hubris)—March 2024—If you’ve been reading my columns in this space, then you know I write about unspeakably terrible topics. Primarily, I write about extinction. Extinction is the death of the last individual of a species. Writing about such a dire subject isn’t a lot of fun. I cannot imagine that reading my articles is much fun, either. On occasion, I try to squeeze a smile out of my readers, with varying degrees of success. I hope I’ll never be found guilty of causing people to die from laughter. I could not tolerate that kind of guilt. For over two decades, I taught courses at various colleges and universities. During this time, I was actually praised for my sense of humor. This is easy to imagine, if you’ve spent any time in a college classroom: most instructors and professors are many steps removed from hilarity. (Read more . . .)

Poet James Engelhardt. (Photo: Laura Leigh Morris.)
Poet James Engelhardt.

Speculative Friction

The Poetry of James Engelhardt,By Claire Bateman

GREENVILLE South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2024—Writes poet James Engelhardt: “Ecopoetry does share a space with science. One of the concerns of ecopoetry is non-human nature (it shares this concern with the critical apparatus it borrows from, ecocriticism). It certainly shares that concern with most of the world’s history of poetry: How can we connect with non-human nature that seems so much more, so much larger than ourselves? How can we understand it?” Engelhardt’s poems have appeared in the North American ReviewSheila-Na-GigChange SevenTerrain.orgBlack FoxFourth River, and many other places. His ecopoetry manifesto is titled “The Language Habitat,” and his book, Bone Willows, is available from Boreal Books, an imprint of Red Hen Press. (Read more . . .)

Duets with a neighborhood friend, c. 1961.
Duet with a friend, c. 1961.

Words & Wonder

Life of Pi-ano,By Kathryn E. Livingston

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—March 2024—Some folks grow up around ponies, beaches, sailboats, rosary beads, or with an effusive auntie. I, on the other hand, grew up with and have always lived with pianos. I don’t know why, since neither of my parents were musicians (nor am I), but from birth until now (my elder years), I’ve always had a piano in my surroundings. My siblings and I don’t recall how it got there, but an upright Stroud piano has always resided in the Schenectady, NY home in which we were raised. Being a bit fanciful, I’ve long suspected that my life’s insistent piano theme had something to do with the fact that I would one day marry a musician; it’s my hunch that my familiarity with music (though not my proficiency), gave me a leg up when it came to my prospective spouse. (Read more . . .)

Sullivan March 2024 kneedlework
Oma strickt Strümpfe, by Sadarama.

On the Other Hand

On Not Having Been Taught to Knit,By Anita Sullivan

EUGENE Oregon—(Hubris)—March 2024—I’m listening to Grigory Sokolov play Bach’s “Art of the Fugue,” which is like being present at the Dawn of the World and, for some reason, I think about how I always wanted to learn to knit, and never did. These two things must be related; otherwise why would such a thought come into my mind? The music is made of glass, it catches in my throat today because of all the things it is not: it is not plastic, it is not greedy, it does not want me to give it any money—the word is gratuitous. And I am so relieved that I sag back into the pillows on the sofa and cry. The grooves in my soul from this piece that I’ve listened to about 25 times in the past year, demand to be let out of their cages (I know, grooves can’t be in cages).  (Read more . . .)

Tomb of Muhammad Ahmad bin Abd Allah, the Mahdi, in Omdurman, Sudan. (Image: Sven-steffen arndt/Wikimedia Commons.)
Tomb of Muhammad Ahmad bin Abd Allah, Omdurman, Sudan.

Waking Point

“Khartoum: A Recollection, Part 4,” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Hubris)— March 2024—Before dawn, the next morning, I was summoned to the hotel entrance by the driver hired to take me, the British contractor, and his wife to the Omdurman Souk. The driver, a young, lanky, easy-going Sudanese man who spoke English, greeted us politely, introduced himself as Bashir, and got behind the wheel. The contractor huffed, making it clear that he disapproved of the fact that the driver hadn’t opened the car doors for us, then ushered me and his silent, sullen wife into the back seat; he sat next to the driver in the front passenger seat. While the wife remained taciturn throughout our journey, her husband spoke, almost incessantly, about the shortcomings of the Sudanese, the terrible conditions in the country, and the hardships he and his wife had endured while staying at the hotel in “one little room.” (Read more . . .)

Tracy Chapman, 2009, Bruges, Belgium. (Photo: Hans Hillewaert/Wikimedia Commons.) 
Tracy Chapman, 2009, Bruges, Belgium.

Fairly Unbalanced

Back in Tracy Chapman & Luke Combs’ Fast Car,” By Michael Tallon

ANTIGUA Guatemala—(Hubris)—March 2024—Like many of you, I watched the Tracy Chapman/ Luke Combs duet from last month on the 2024 GRAMMYs and was powerfully and unexpectedly moved. Also, like many of you, I remember vividly how the song they performed—and Chapman—stood out in the spring of 1988, when the radio was blasting INXS, George Michael, and Terence Trent D’arby in a never-ending, power-pop loop. Chapman was just so different. So human and real. Tracy Chapman’s voice and talent felt—back then, and again in February—like a marble-smooth boulder somehow preexisting the river itself. There was all this stuff—all these gated drum tracks, borderline erotic videos, pyrotechnics—and then, suddenly . . . a woman with a voice and an acoustic guitar. (Read more . . .)

Toon by Addison.


“The Very Soul of Noble, Gentle Wit: Addison,” By Mark Addison Kershaw

ATLANTA Georgia—(Hubris)—March 2024—Last month, our February 2024 issue of Hubris was dedicated, in its entirety, to the single-panel cartooning of Mark Addison Kershaw, and if you scroll down our magazine’s current virtual Home Page, past our March 2024 offerings, you will come upon the seven February columns featuring portfolios of Addisonian work: so, if you missed seeing them last month, there’s still time. As someone who has all her life received an analog copy of The New Yorker every week, and whose usual custom is to flip through it locating all the single-panel cartoons before reading even the magazine’s Table of Contents, I can assure you that cartoons are the laugh’sblood of all literary and generalist publications—and yet cartooning is a dying art form. (Editorial and Political cartoons, now extinct in America, also once thrived and informed in the broadsheets, tabloids, and literary journals of the land, but that important, irreplaceable, bespoke genre of commentary, leavened by wit, has recently gone the way of the Oxford comma. (Read more . . .)

Wessel Freytag von Loringhoven suicide note. (Source: Mosbatho/Wikimedia Commons.)
Wessel Freytag von Loringhoven suicide note.

Skip the B.S.

Along the Oregon Trail: First & Last Words,By Dr. Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—March 2024—A psychology professor once told a class I was part of that “liminal statements” often have some memorable significance, poignancy, and/or humor, whether the speaker is arriving or departing. The examples she gave us were so moving that they convinced me to keep my own list for future reference. These now include a potential list of my own last words such as: “I hope what I just said isn’t ungrammatical—please excuse the double negative.” Or: “I have no idea what Joyce’s Finnegans Wake means; I never got past the first page. Truth be told, I never finished Moby Dick, either.” All kidding aside, as the light dims, the following eight-word sentence is what I’ve memorized to tell my German wife of six decades, “I apologize, my love, for leaving you alone.” If those words stick in my throat, my proposed exit line will be what the Germans call a “staircase joke,” a great line you wish you’d spoken as the door shuts behind you. (Read more . . .)

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