An Editor's Letter
Dear Reader,
I must tell you I crowned myself an "editor" because no one else was around to object. I use that term lightly, to do otherwise would be pretentious at this stage. I have read a hundred of these letters hoping to figure out what to write exactly. So far, nothing. Clearly, people capable of heading established publications know exactly what to do. They have actual content, years of published material, they know what readers can expect. I can only tell you I have no idea what will come of this.
As of this Monday night, a bright day in August, I write to no-one. I only hear the murmurs of a city everyone knows, stifled in growth by sin, debauchery, and occasionally greed. The sounds it makes, 10 miles away, all of them voices, mumbles, perhaps moans, feel only foreign. They speak to each other in laughter and delight, but none speak to me. My audience lies somewhere else, maybe a few blocks away on my University campus, or across the country somewhere where people don't know I exist. Let's hope that audience finds me soon.
I will not tell you quirky details about myself, but only how the name of this place came to be.
I have an undying love for zucchinis. Forget their almost phallic shape and texture when raw, those things are adorable. Their name in Spanish, calabacitas, literally translates to small pumpkins. While I searched for an appropriate title for the blog, I devoured an entire plate of those roasted bastards. In the warm emptiness of summer and without much inspiration, I settled for their name -- the non-diminutive form, and therefore far less adorable: calabasas. I opened the Illustrator file with a rusty logo, swapped a c for an h, imputed the result into Google, deemed it appropriate, and created the blog.
From the name, to this first post, everything reeks of improvisation, of not knowing what to do except to do something. My heart seems to leap out of my chest when I wonder what will come of Halabasas. Only time may deem this giant leap into the abyss a futile attempt at creation.
For now, this is my child.
Dear Reader,
I must tell you I crowned myself an "editor" because no one else was around to object. I use that term lightly, to do otherwise would be pretentious at this stage. I have read a hundred of these letters hoping to figure out what to write exactly. So far, nothing. Clearly, people capable of heading established publications know exactly what to do. They have actual content, years of published material, they know what readers can expect. I can only tell you I have no idea what will come of this.
As of this Monday night, a bright day in August, I write to no-one. I only hear the murmurs of a city everyone knows, stifled in growth by sin, debauchery, and occasionally greed. The sounds it makes, 10 miles away, all of them voices, mumbles, perhaps moans, feel only foreign. They speak to each other in laughter and delight, but none speak to me. My audience lies somewhere else, maybe a few blocks away on my University campus, or across the country somewhere where people don't know I exist. Let's hope that audience finds me soon.
I will not tell you quirky details about myself, but only how the name of this place came to be.
I have an undying love for zucchinis. Forget their almost phallic shape and texture when raw, those things are adorable. Their name in Spanish, calabacitas, literally translates to small pumpkins. While I searched for an appropriate title for the blog, I devoured an entire plate of those roasted bastards. In the warm emptiness of summer and without much inspiration, I settled for their name -- the non-diminutive form, and therefore far less adorable: calabasas. I opened the Illustrator file with a rusty logo, swapped a c for an h, imputed the result into Google, deemed it appropriate, and created the blog.
From the name, to this first post, everything reeks of improvisation, of not knowing what to do except to do something. My heart seems to leap out of my chest when I wonder what will come of Halabasas. Only time may deem this giant leap into the abyss a futile attempt at creation.
For now, this is my child.
