Souvenir 2, by Eric MacDonald

Jon Teets and Lorianne Zeller, Publishers
Paula Grenside, Poetry & Art Editor
David Ayers, Prose & Art Editor
David Wright, Editor
Steve Harris, Contributing Editor
Design by Carol Yocom.

For Ron Jones


Today I put out the fire in my pen and watched the point
of embering turn from glow to a wick of wisp-- it is the
 'plock, plock' of heavy raindrops falling from the chest-
nut trees, down, as they must do, denting the roof of the book-
seller's tent, that brings to the joy of early spring that chilling
nub of early winter.

Pascal said that all the evils in the world come from men not
being able to sit, quiet, in a room. In repose we are good in
that we are not rummaging through condemnations, rising with
the swell of a wave that topples over all the Damascusses of
our inner lives, cushioning the harms our slights have caused
with a finger at our closed lips.

I saw Ron Jones as a child not yet too old to be pushed in a
pram by a nurse. They were in a park and while a-tarry under
an awning that led visitors to a house of glass, the baby Jones
held out his arms in a sudden release to clarification and a shock
of recognition-- it is good to tarry and it all was good when he
came to sit quietly in a room.

We buried Jones in a place reserved adjacent the Walk of I'le
d'Oleron-- the cobbled lane lovers take into Gauches Park.

After, I wandered to the line of bookseller tents. I watched a
lady maunder about inside, touching the spines of leather books,
dancing her fingers atop the glisten of jackets, mindless, as if
breaking an afternoon away from the emptiness of her rooms--
the strawberries rotting in the sink, the shucks of corn drying in
a basket, the pile of pushed down sheets and the fester of old,
yellowed cases for the pillows.

What was the graveside service to her, that she did not watch?

What was it to me, that I did?

Don Taylor

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A Word from the Staff


As you can see, it’s pretty packed.

It. This Avatar Review. This dwelling. This issue. This house. This complex and elaborate, highly-evolved metaphorical structure. This symbolic unity.

This real, very real, gathering of electrons & protons & neutrons, 0s and 1s, wires, screens (& other screens, monitor screens), focal points—and all the human interest, all it takes, all it’s taken, to fill the space before you with these words and these images and these sounds.

This interior and its supporting elements. This outside and its surrounding neighborhood. This Nile over here and this Venus over there. This moon and this excellent bottle of Rioja.


The dwelling is important. When we leave it, we never know quite where we’re going [when we leave it], but we know what it means to leave it. To leave home. We know what it means to say, I will return home and I will stay home. We know what it means to be at home, to call a place home, and to make our home [in a place]. Home is where we dwell.


We think there are as many ways to live in this world as there are homes in this world. And even more ways, many more ways, of expressing home. We think they all have a place here; they have a home.

And so, to those who’ve decided to call this place home, to be with us here, in this space/time, for this time/space; to our contributors and to our readers; to our friends and our colleagues; to Ron especially, and to Ron’s family—Madonna, Jocelyn, and Emily—


This house is a response to chaos.


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