It is almost time for the next issue of INSTANT NOODLES.

The Old Scratch Press crew is working on finalizing the selections (and if you were chosen, but didn’t receive your contract yet, it’s coming.), with a deadline of July 11th, and we’ll have the whole issue designed and ready for reading by August.

I like this time because it usually prompts me to revisit the current issue, which, coincidentally, is called “Current.” The upcoming issue is called “Sanctuary.” Today I want to share with you a lovely moving poem called (Dis)Associating, and written by Aspen Greenwood. When I read this poem it seems to me to work almost for both themes, current and sanctuary. At the moment I am sitting on my sister’s back deck in Idyllwild in California, and though I am surrounded by gorgeous pines, the sounds of nature around me have much more of a jungle vibe than forest to my untrained ears. It is surprisingly noisy. And I am moving between states: working on my laptop, reading Aspen’s poem, checking texts on my phone, gazing into the woods looking to spot birds, worrying (a teensy bit) about the rattlesnakes my sister says are too common up here, feeling very peaceful, and restful, and productive all at the same time. The productive part is hard for me to take a break from, partially because I enjoy it, and partially because in addition to helping authors by creating their books, or editing their books, there’s just a good deal to do in general managing this company: updating website pages, keeping tracks of authors’ goals, and wins, to make sure to chronicle them here, checking that everything is functioning as it should, answering queries and questions, wrestling with the roles of manager, and teacher, and guide, and cheerleader, all while being someone who just loves good writing, and wants to help get it out there. Wouldn’t it be a wonderful world if authors could just write it, and publishers could just make it, and everyone would buy it, and authors and readers and publishers could all live happily and contentedly ever after?

I’m aware, as the birds start kicking off again way up in the high pines, that none of us are probably as present in our lives as we could be to experience them fully. Were we more present, we’d fine some sanctuary in the unexpected noises around us, and perhaps we’d wrestle with the uncomfortable bits sooner, and flow more easily back to appreciation and joy.

It’s going to be a hot one, but currently there is a cool piney breeze full of the breath and trills of birds scented with Queen Anne’s Lace, and though I hear the sound of woodpeckers among all the din of the woods, I do not hear any disconcerting rattles. I do hear very small feet: there is a chipmunk scampering near my shoes. It’s a lovely morning to be alive.

If you haven’t, consider taking a read of the issue “Current.” There is also some great art there, in case you haven’t got the woods to look at.

For now, I offer you Aspen’s lovely poem.

(Dis)Associating  ~ Aspen Greenwood

It’s the glint of a phone screen in a darkened room,  
a daughter’s whisper caught between the hum of the city,  
her eyes flicking to the window where the night spills over—  
light flickers from cars that pass by, smeared in rain,  
the world outside dissolving like a breath on glass.

In Mumbai, at dawn, the streets are already awake,  
the air thick with the scent of spices,  
the hands of the hawker pulling fresh chapati from the fire,  
laughter echoing off crumbling walls,  
the pulse of life riding the waves of the monsoon.

In Paris, the baker kneads dough by moonlight,  
dusting flour like soft snow,  
the city’s pulse throbbing in every corner—  
an artist paints shadows on the Seine,  
a lover leaves a kiss on a lamppost.

And yet— 
we sit here,
watching screens,
reading the same words
but the present slips between our fingers,
like sand, like water,  
like time too busy to wait for us.

In New York, it’s rush hour—  
the rhythm of footsteps, the clang of trains,  
a million souls colliding, scattering,  
each chasing a dream of now,  
each still searching for the next step  
in a city that never sleeps.

But here, in the silence of a home,  
I can hear my own breath,  
my own pulse ticking in my chest  
as the clock on the wall takes its sweet time,  
pushing the hours like heavy clouds.  
The world is out there,  
but the only place I’m certain is here.

In Tokyo, neon lights blur the night sky,  
a thousand screens flashing with futures,  
but the woman in the park walks with her thoughts,  
each step mindful,  
each step echoing the song of now—  
the city hums, but her peace is still.

I look at the spaces between us,  
all the places we think we aren’t,  
when the truth is—  
we are always here,  
we are always now,  
woven into the fabric of the moment  
wherever we go,  
whenever we leave.

And I realise,  
it’s not the place that holds us,  
but the present,  
the pulse of today that beats inside us,  
everywhere, 
anywhere, 
whether we’re waking in the noise of a city,  
or sitting in the quiet of our own minds—  
we are always here,  
always present,  
even when we’re far away.