Note from the Editor: This is our second issue.

By The Incongruous Quarterly

First: Some stuff happened. There was a party. People came. Other people stood onstage and read things and played things. There was beer; we lost at scrabble and were happy. We went home. We checked our email. We sat crossed on Mike’s couch or Emma’s hardwood and thought about things. We sent some replies, found a theme, made decisions, pushed off. Then we put on a record. We thought, Music. Hm. Emma told this story about how when she was thirteen she’d bake things for her favourite bands, she’d sneak in for soundcheck and hand them upstage to whoever, to politely Um thanks and would just stand there smiling. This was more than once and always so awkward and each time her parents would say: We really, really wish you’d stop doing this. For the obvious reasons, said Emma. We had all heard this story a couple of times, but we kept sitting nodded and placid. Checked emails. Some time passed. We worked. In August there was another party, people came and read things and played things, we had fun. We went home again. Music. Hm. Emma, still talking (still always) was like: So you’re snuck in and awkward and thirteen and flushed and with tupperware, hearing it. Learn something. How music gets sometimes alone in a room, when it’s not meant for crowds or a finished thing – it gets like the listening gets, with the lonely and strangeness. Plus sometimes they do covers, or play a note wrong, or just talk, and it rings. Right? We all kind of nodded, like Sure. Someone took off the record and put on another one. We made a few lists and we wrote some replies. Then we sprawled on the hardwood and read things. More working and loudly. We learned files and more lists and voicemail and sounding; we got read and to listen and unfit. Sent emails. Things fell in. We were and felt: Grateful and strange.

This is our second issue. We are proud of it and lucky to have you here. Thank you so much for reading.

Love,

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