Do they?
For nearly ten years there lay a tangled patch of wild undergrowth in a clearing along the tree line separating my property from that of my nearest neighbor, preventing easy congress between the yards. I’d heard rumors about those people for years—opinionated, arrogant, nasty, allowing their children to run naked through the lawn—so I was indifferent to making their acquaintance, and besides, the tangled patch of wild undergrowth prevented a casual stroll next door for a chance meeting.
That is, until our children became friends at school and had the idea of combining their high school graduation parties into one unified celebration. My wife and I were nervous before the first meeting to discuss the details with our neighbors but pleased to find them reasonable, responsible, intellectually curious, well-educated, intelligent, cooperative, and convivial—simply delightful people. So, my neighbor hopped on his brush hog and ripped out that tangled patch of wild undergrowth and leveled out the land adjoining our yards. We raised a circus tent over the property line, threw up some tables, held the party, and since then, the tangled patch of undergrowth has been replaced by a smooth path between us, which gets ongoing use.
Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” has come to mean many things. Some think the poem pushes the value of turf protection—keeping them out and us in. Them, no doubt, are the bad people, and us, the good people. American society seems to have taken on a distinct turf-vibe in recent years, but I think Frost’s meaning is better interpreted as an appreciation for boundaries—healthy, respectful, and appropriate. We’ve suffered from a lack of such fences across many realms—political, personal, rhetorical—and a restoration is needed.
The front cover art for Clockhouse Volume Nine is “Neighbors” by K. Carlton Johnson. Simple at first glance: basic colors, two virtually identical houses standing side by side beneath a sky with only two clouds, one of which extends out of frame. Yet, the message is clear and most profound: despite small differences—one house slighter, taller—these neighbors have much more in common than not, and the doorknobs hint at possibility for opening, for understanding. Each house represents a respect for privacy while a neighborhood represents the potential for community.
We live in a time when politicians and corporations blur lines between moral and immoral rhetoric, when social media monetizes intrusions of boundaries between personal and private, and when truth cannot be discerned from lies. Society may have always been this way, but today there is a palpable nostalgia for simpler times, or maybe just simpler ways of living.
A healthy respect for boundaries, perhaps. The boundary of a correctly worn mask because I do not want to get you sick. The boundary of an unasked personal question because it’s really none of my business, and I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable sharing anything you don’t feel compelled to share. The boundary of becoming aware of and bracketing my personal biases and beliefs because they could be wrong, and I’d hate to foist my errors on anyone else. The simple mental boundary of wishing my fellow citizen well instead of ill no matter who they are, what they do, or what they may think. The boundary of putting aside my stuff to consider for a moment another perspective. This is what quality writing has always done in every age, but it is especially vital in our own.
My hope is that these wonderful selections of poems, stories, and plays from Clockhouse Volume Nine provide you a simple reminder that viewed from the perspective of healthy boundaries guiding our thoughts and actions, our chaotic world can be transformed into a livable, lovable, inviting place by simply considering unique, alternative points of view. Like that tangled patch of wild undergrowth. Once dividing me from my neighbors, it has since been transformed into a pleasant path inviting connection and understanding.
What worthier purpose has literature ever served?
Ken Damerow, Interim Editorial Director
For nearly ten years there lay a tangled patch of wild undergrowth in a clearing along the tree line separating my property from that of my nearest neighbor, preventing easy congress between the yards. I’d heard rumors about those people for years—opinionated, arrogant, nasty, allowing their children to run naked through the lawn—so I was indifferent to making their acquaintance, and besides, the tangled patch of wild undergrowth prevented a casual stroll next door for a chance meeting.
That is, until our children became friends at school and had the idea of combining their high school graduation parties into one unified celebration. My wife and I were nervous before the first meeting to discuss the details with our neighbors but pleased to find them reasonable, responsible, intellectually curious, well-educated, intelligent, cooperative, and convivial—simply delightful people. So, my neighbor hopped on his brush hog and ripped out that tangled patch of wild undergrowth and leveled out the land adjoining our yards. We raised a circus tent over the property line, threw up some tables, held the party, and since then, the tangled patch of undergrowth has been replaced by a smooth path between us, which gets ongoing use.
Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” has come to mean many things. Some think the poem pushes the value of turf protection—keeping them out and us in. Them, no doubt, are the bad people, and us, the good people. American society seems to have taken on a distinct turf-vibe in recent years, but I think Frost’s meaning is better interpreted as an appreciation for boundaries—healthy, respectful, and appropriate. We’ve suffered from a lack of such fences across many realms—political, personal, rhetorical—and a restoration is needed.
The front cover art for Clockhouse Volume Nine is “Neighbors” by K. Carlton Johnson. Simple at first glance: basic colors, two virtually identical houses standing side by side beneath a sky with only two clouds, one of which extends out of frame. Yet, the message is clear and most profound: despite small differences—one house slighter, taller—these neighbors have much more in common than not, and the doorknobs hint at possibility for opening, for understanding. Each house represents a respect for privacy while a neighborhood represents the potential for community.
We live in a time when politicians and corporations blur lines between moral and immoral rhetoric, when social media monetizes intrusions of boundaries between personal and private, and when truth cannot be discerned from lies. Society may have always been this way, but today there is a palpable nostalgia for simpler times, or maybe just simpler ways of living.
A healthy respect for boundaries, perhaps. The boundary of a correctly worn mask because I do not want to get you sick. The boundary of an unasked personal question because it’s really none of my business, and I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable sharing anything you don’t feel compelled to share. The boundary of becoming aware of and bracketing my personal biases and beliefs because they could be wrong, and I’d hate to foist my errors on anyone else. The simple mental boundary of wishing my fellow citizen well instead of ill no matter who they are, what they do, or what they may think. The boundary of putting aside my stuff to consider for a moment another perspective. This is what quality writing has always done in every age, but it is especially vital in our own.
My hope is that these wonderful selections of poems, stories, and plays from Clockhouse Volume Nine provide you a simple reminder that viewed from the perspective of healthy boundaries guiding our thoughts and actions, our chaotic world can be transformed into a livable, lovable, inviting place by simply considering unique, alternative points of view. Like that tangled patch of wild undergrowth. Once dividing me from my neighbors, it has since been transformed into a pleasant path inviting connection and understanding.
What worthier purpose has literature ever served?
Ken Damerow, Interim Editorial Director