Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

 

peanutbuttercoverimage

 

 Eric Franklin’s Peanut Butter Principles

by Elizabeth Hughes

Peanut Butter Principles  by Eric Franklin is a very insightful and encouraging book. Mr. Franklin touches on some very good points on how to encourage children and others to reach their full potential. In Chapter 16, Mr. Franklin brings up his faith and points out something, I, myself, have learned, that, like the title of the chapter,”Faith Makes all Things Possible, Not Easy”, is very true. As the author points out, our journey to reach our full potential and to make our lives a success is not easy, but, with hard work and perseverance, it is possible. Mr. Franklin speaks of how to build the child’s self-esteem when helping them. Mr. Franklin tells us of the importance of persevering in our endeavors and not giving up so easily.

I agree with the ideas presented in Peanut Butter Principles by Eric Franklin. Thank you, sir, for a very enlightening book, which I can take into account for my own life as well. I highly recommend Peanut Butter Principles by Eric Franklin for anyone, not just parents, teachers or mentors. It has some very excellent guidelines anyone can put to use in their lives. Peanut Butter Principles is most definitely my cup of tea!!

Peanut Butter Principles is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Peanut-Butter-Principles-Leadership-Lessons/dp/0615912826/

 

dancefordeadprincess

Dance For A Dead Princess
by Deborah Hawkins
“Dance for a Dead Princess” by Deborah Hawkins is a really, really good novel. It had romance, suspense, murder, intrigue and will keep you on the edge of your seat page after page. When you think you have guessed the mystery, it will take you on a surprising turn.
Dance for a Dead Princess is the story of Nicholas, the Duke of Burnham who is widowed and has a charge who is a 16 year old girl, and who is quite a handful. He is trying to sell the Abbey, although the estate has been in the family for centuries. He meets Taylor, an attorney, who is handling the sale and also managing the estate of a very good friend of hers who was murdered. The deceased has a tape made by Princess Diana that reveals secrets people are after, including about her demise.
While everyone processes the legal papers concerning the sale of the Abbey and uncovers Diana’s tape, murder and romance take place. This book is absolutely fantastic and the ending is very surprising, I did not see that coming!! Of course, I will not reveal the ending, you will have to read that for yourself!!
I very highly recommend Dance For A Dead Princess by Deborah Hawkins. I would even like to see it made into a movie! Dance for a Dead Princess is most definitely ‘my cup of tea’!
Dance for a Dead Princess is available here: http://www.amazon.com/Dance-Dead-Princess-Deborah-Hawkins/dp/0988934728/

Bruce Roberts reviews Tom Reiss’ The Black Count

blackcountcover

 

The Black Count, by Tom Reiss

Review by Bruce Roberts

 

As a kid, I devoured the novels of Alexander Dumas. I agonized at the misery of The Count of Monte Cristo and The Man in the Iron Mask, and thrilled at the masterful sword battles against corruption of Athos, Porthos, Aramis–The Three Musketeers, plus one: D’Artagnan. “All for one and one for all” became a neighborhood rallying cry. Little did I know that the suffering and adventures of Dumas’ characters were often modeled on a real life character—his father.

The Black Count, by Tom Reiss, is a wonderful book in so many ways. Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Biography in 2013, Reiss traces the life of Alex Dumas Sr. from a poor half-French, half black slave child in the French Caribbean, to General Alex Dumas, a hero in charge of thousands of troops in the French army under Napoleon during the French Revolution, to a real life Monte Cristo trapped in an Italian prison.

The Black Count, however, besides developing Alex, the general much loved by Alexander, the famous author, is rife with historical insight. For example, the history of the French sugar plantations in the Caribbean is explored, from the first sugar cane brought by Columbus, to France’s takeover from Spain and Portugal. By France’s rule, African slavery was in full swing, and from it came Alex Dumas, son of a French nobleman and a slave woman.

Alex Dumas was fortunate. Had his father left him in the Caribbean, none of this miraculous life would have occurred. But brought to France, Alex received a fine education, one that included swordsmanship from the finest teachers. This was possible because his education coincided with the stirrings of the French Revolution, and despite the insanity rampant at that time, part of the Revolution’s philosophy treated everyone as equal. This meant abolishing slavery in the sugar colonies and treating black citizens as equals in every way.

Thus, after joining the French army, Alex rose through the ranks as one of France’s most heroic and successful generals. He commanded thousands of men, and was quite often the actual hero, once holding a bridge in Austria by himself before help came along. His strength and sword skill made him much more than a sideline strategist like Napoleon.

Unfortunately, returning from a campaign in Egypt, Dumas was captured by Italians hostile to the revolution. He spent years as a captive, ala The Count of Monte Cristo. Finally released, he made it home to his family in poor health, and by the time he recuperated, Napoleon had realized that abolition of slavery had hurt France’s sugar income. Slavery was reinstituted, and acceptance for blacks cooled considerably. His father died poor and out of the limelight, and despite his popular novels, Alexander Jr. faced discrimination throughout his life.

The Black Count is a well-told story of history, character, and adventure. And for fans of Dumas Jr.’s swashbuckling novels, to think that his popular heroes are fictional representations of the father he idolized, makes them all the more appealing to read.   

 

Essay by Ayokunle Adeleye

OOU Medical Campus, Sagamu, on FIRE

by Ayokunle Adeleye

 

I gained admission into Olabisi Onabanjo University in 2005, and I’m still in school. My Matric Number therefore is 050

but I’m still in 500 Level- not even final year! Yet I’m not in school because I repeated, neither did I resit. I’m still in school because I’m in Nigeria, because I’m in Ogun State, because I’m in OOU.

But I didn’t get here by lack of somewhere else, (lest you say beggars can’t be choosers). I could have gone to any University in Nigeria. (My results were tenable anywhere in Nigeria.) It was therefore not a dearth of options, it was not a lack of acceptance anywhere  else, it was a matter of (imposed) choice.

My father had learnt that OOU had the best medical school in the country (as it did a baker’s-dozen years ago), and made me come here. Little did he know that after the crest came the trough, that after the zenith came the nadir, that after the peak came the depth.

And that’s where we are NOW.

My mates went to Unilag, UI, Uniben, Uniilorin… Of course they are House Officers now. They had hostels, generator-powered classrooms, school buses that they  could take to Intercollegiate Quizzes. I have none of that, and I’m still in school. What is worse? I contribute money to buy the class generator, and contribute money to procure fuel- yet the heat is not cured, so much that the lecturer brings her own fan to class.

You see, OOU is plagued by strikes. Internal, national, external, even extraterrestrial. And who pays? I! I lose time, I waste rents and fares and now fees? Many of my colleagues lost parents in this struggle. Many fathers (and mothers) paid the first  school fees of 15 000 but are not alive today to see us pay 150 000- all at no fault of ours! Yes, it saddens. I’m glad you feel my pains, but Prof does not- and cannot. Not while he’s Dean. Not while he expects me to book an appointment to see him. Not while he plays deaf, insensitive, insane.

Yet I don’t complain. I keep quiet through strikes- whether wise or stupid, whether precious or preposterous, whether logical or political. He gets paid for work he did not do; remember the ill-fated “No work no pay?” And, surprisingly, disappointingly, insanely, he expects me to pay for these lost sessions, for his unofficial leave, and, in essence, for his strike.

Does that sound sane to you? It doesn’t to me! You see, a sane mind comprehends that if you enter for a 6-year course, you pay for 6 sessions, provided you don’t repeat a class. Not so?

It is bad that School Fees have consistently increased over the years from 15 000 in 05/06 to 150 000 in 12/13 (indigene figures). It is worse that these new fees are applied across board. It is worst that I am now expected to pay for those times I wanted to learn but had striking lecturers. It is insane that I am threatened with rustication and expulsion for
refusing.

You see, in Medical School more than anywhere else, my lecturers are meant to be models of character. And when they resisted, defied, Jonathan they taught me to do the same. It should therefore come as no surprise that I shall resist this insane directive.

Interestingly, his name also starts with J; Jonathan, not Jesus.

And before you tell me that a Medical Student ought not to protest, I will tell you that although I am sheep, I am not a fool. On the contrary, I am (believed to be) sharp in mind enough to comprehend Medicine- in all its mightiness.

And that it was on such sentiments that I accepted an irrational increase in school fees. It was on such sentiments that Prof denied me the opportunity of featuring in Uniilorin’s Medical School’s Health Week Quiz. It is on such sentiments that my school bus is allegedly usurped by members of Faculty. It was and is on such sentiments that… abegi, make I no bore you jare.

It is hightime I said “Enough is enough”. And, yes, I am saying it- the peaceful way. I believe in sanity and amicability. In Psychiatry, insanity is subdued with force- you don’t let a mad man roam around, you hold him against his will till he is well. And if Prof does not sempe, he risks force, he risks violence: he wants me to steal. I gladly told my parents that the
University had accepted that I would pay 6 school fees and no more. What do I say now? That there’s a new Pharaoh in Egypt who knowest not Joseph? Or that there is some (mental) instability at work?

Thomas Aquinas said, An unjust law is no law at all. I therefore have a choice to fight back with these peaceful, respectful, amicable, words, or to raise arms and defend my sovereignty. I hope Prof listens now. And I pray he doesn’t make me turn to violence.

For in the latter case there will be no respect for grey hair as I strive to pay 300,000 for last year and this- and seek 150,000 for next year’s.

And Prof, please, don’t ever threaten me with rustication for fighting for my rights when you don’t hesitate to demand yours from Dr J in Aso Rock.

The Constitution of Nigeria allows me freedom of speech and expression (I know it’s easy for you to forget that, and I forgive you). My training in Medical School allows me to make a provisional diagnosis. Everything aforesaid is by liberties guaranteed by either or both.

By inference, therefore, you are liable and I can sue you for infringing on my rights to freedom of speech and expression- and for delaying me unnecessarily in school. And I doubt I have slandered you, in which case I tender unreserved apologies apriori.

And I for add my name but you fit forget to remember say you no suppose threaten me or rusticate me. And I
have a suspended final MB to write. Even as I am in 400 level, and 300 level, and 200 level- all at once.

For I am tagless, nameless and faceless. I am the Spirit of the OOU Medial Student. I am the Truth.

Sue me!

Another concerned medical student.
OOU, Sagamu.

Poetry from Christopher Bernard

 

Minoan bowl depicting the Minotaur, from www.nem.tku.edu.tw

Minoan bowl depicting the Minotaur, from www.nem.tku.edu.tw

 

The Minotaur Speaks

By Christopher Bernard


In the darkness a line glimmers~
like a piece of spider silk, a tendril of its web~
quivers and pulls
around another corner, 
then disappears in the gloom,
trembling in the rancid darkness, hot 
and stale as a cellar,
binding the random corners of my chaotic home.

At one end clings the man the gods have sent to kill me~
(we’ll see about that!)~but the thread’s other end
winds and coils and shines,
leading . . . where? 

Oh, farther into the maze where father Minos left me,
the bestial child his whore of a wife, my mother Pasiphaë,
dropped nine months after coupling with the Thracian bull
whose member she had coveted~

mating monster with monster,
how did they expect to escape having a monster for their offspring!

And so Minos threw me into this foul place,
scrawled into confusion like a ball of tangled yarn,
no one can find a way out of, no matter how brave or cunning,
a darkness I explore to find but deeper darkness,
and there left me, to feed on sacrificial virgins,
the beautiful, pure-skinned, untouched 
children of the Greeks.

I trip over their bones as I bang from wall to wall,
lost, hungry, bellowing in the dark,
still hearing the echoes of the weeping that come 
from the maze’s mouth, where the others cower, crowd, and wait
their turn in the labyrinth, their death duel with the Minotaur.

The line tugs. Where does it go? It slackens again~who bound it
to the one Greek they promised would kill that abortion, 
the bull-man~

as if I had no soul, no mind, no heart, no memory
of happiness under the sun’s gaze, and only howl and snort,
bucking my horns on the rocks in an agony of memory
of those few weeks I knew the bright flash 
of day.

It tugs again, and thrums~he is looking for me, this Theseus,
with his smooth face, his eyes shining with bald terror,
imagining me~

one hand trembling on the rock face, the other
sweating at the end of the thread. 
The thread! it may lead 
back to the maze’s entrance, escape 
out of this stinking darkness into the air and sun,

the immensity of light and breath of cloud and the sweet moon,
the high sky above me~could it? 

Of course, it could! 
Someone~
a lover?

someone who loves Theseus (even my mother didn’t love me!)

gave him, of the thread,
one end. 
And the other
she holds, waiting for him, 
standing patiently 
at the dark hole where she saw him disappear,
frightened and hopeful, 
feeling each quiver and jerk with fear, 

to keep her dearest love from being killed and eaten by me. 

What if I follow the line 
it shows, so white, in the darkness?

Lord sun above me, beyond this mantle of rock~
if I follow the thread, will it lead me back up to the flowery air 
and the sighing 
of the sea, 
back to light and life and even
a hope for love 
under the stars, 
back to the heaven called day?

It slackens.
Grab it, now, beast! 
It is so light~so frail~
how could anything so fragile be a promise a beast could believe,
a hope in this slaughterhouse, this fist of stench and weeping~
my hope?

I’ll let you guide me, 
one way to my death
at the hands of Theseus, the other to my life 
in a girl’s hands, bright with day.

Lead me, thread. And do not break 
until I am dead 
or free.

_____

Christopher Bernard is a poet, novelist, essayist, photographer and filmmaker living in San Francisco. He is author of the novel A Spy in the Ruins, the short-story collection In the American Night, and The Rose Shipwreck: Poems and Photographs. He is also co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector.

Poetry from Linda Allen

 

Deficient

The way of people is to forget

to reject tomatoes with a spot

to scan away all deficiencies

they move quickly

to throw everything out

that does not seem perfect to them

The way of people is to forget

to see past the color of one’s skin

to see what is underneath

they move quickly

to throw out names and say things

that don’t need to be said, heard, or felt

The way of people is to forget

to remember everyone has flaws and is not perfect

to NOT judge, like the good book says

they move quickly

to pass judgments on others and not see

that all people are deficient in someway

The way of the people is to forget

we are all here together just trying to survive

we are all unique

we are all perfect in our own way

we move far too quickly through life

that we forget to live united

Useless Nonsense

I have often asked myself

about things I don’t know

I see the fork in the road

and honestly feel I took the wrong road

I have been put in a crucible place

Having a fracas with myself about a step I never stepped

I have confounding thoughts of hope and everlasting love

I hear the phrase

La vita e bella (life is beautiful)”

but I am afraid it is nothing more than

a honeyfuggle “they” want me to believe

I see the moon and I believe it

has to be more than paranormal

I exhaust myself at

all the thoughts

that prevent me from sleep

It is like an eternal fire I have in me

The passion of a warrior

never to sleep

I breathe deep, in hopes it will

breathe me to life

or at least back to life

sometime my life seems –

surreal

or as if I was denied the grace

to succeed most days

Jesus, grant me the sophistication

and grace to believe

that things aren’t always what they seem

As the weather gets colder I see

flaming marshmallows, bon fires, and togetherness

I feel awkward,

socially awkward

I just don’t fit in with people

The sea

is in my mind,

The ocean,

and other things I may never see or do

I have dreams too big for this small town,

feelings of being trapped

and stuck

here in this small town prison

forevermore

I have daydreams of a life

not well wasted

a life worthy of my

heart and soul’s feelings

I hear an

acorn woodpecker

gathering acorns

and

peck, peck, pecking

outside my bedroom window

in the tree

peck, peck, pecking

Is it any wonder I cannot sleep

with all this

useless, nonsense on my mind

24/7 365

Enemy Within

Perfection is our own worst enemy

We strive for perfection

We need the perfect everything

The perfect life

The perfect clothes

The perfect body

The perfect spouse

The perfect image

Perfection is our own worst enemy

Perfection leaves no room for imperfection

Perfection there is no such thing

I know I am not the only one

I know we are all different

I know we are all unique

Perfection, what is perfection?

Perfection is all humankind’s enemy

Perfection creates nothing

The perfect life

is the life you create for yourself

The perfect clothes

are what make you feel comfortable in your own skin

The perfect spouse

is the person that is your equal no matter if they may be the same sex as you

The perfect image

is the image you see in the mirror, you are your own perfect image

Perfection is our own worst enemy

Perfection only has power if you give it power over you

Perfection we don’t need it, we are our own kind of perfect

Poetry from Dave Douglas

Traveling Pilgrim

 

Riding in the back of a Greyhound

Writing of cities and backcountry

Howling out the wide X-ray window

Without any doubt of my eternity

Picked off the raw face of The Christ

Is the stinging, numbing thorn in my side

As the small horn that is every mountain

every kingdom

Tries to force knees and floor to collide

But I travel not knowing where I rest

In the shadows but not entirely of them

Not a tourist – but not without vision

Of the field I bought with every poem

The stanzas follow the rolling hills

And the hills roll out a destined line

Among the tossed wheat and tares

And from the press to a perfect wine

Intoxicated or darting the bitter toxins

Feeling void or avoiding the darkness

Accusations shoot like venomous darts

but I am shielded

For outside the window is ever-brightness

As the sunrise baptizes me in dancing fire

And with power beyond all imagination

(Though at times my body may betray)

I can do all things – even move a mountain

 

Dave Douglas is a regular Synchronized Chaos contributor who can be reached at carpevelo@gmail.com

 

Poetry by Neil Ellman

From WikiPaintings.com, Salvador Dali's Soft Self Portrait with Fried Bacon

From WikiPaintings.com, Salvador Dali’s Soft Self Portrait with Fried Bacon

Soft Self-Portrait with Fried Bacon

(after the painting by Salvador Dalí;  found poem

based on quotations by the artist)

At the age of six

I wanted to be a cook.

At seven I wanted to be Napoleon,

and my ambition has been growing

ever since.

There are some days when I think

I’m going to die

from an overdose of satisfaction.

I don’t do drugs, I am drugs.

Take me, I am the drug;

take me

I am hallucinogenic.

It is not necessary… to know

whether or not I am joking

or whether or not I am serious.

There is only one difference between

a madman and me. The madman

thinks he is sane. I know I am not.

I am not strange,

I am just not normal.

I am Surrealism.

Salvador Dali as Mona Lisa

Salvador Dali as Mona Lisa

Self Portrait as Mona Lisa

(after the painting by Salvador Dalí)

I’ve shifted paradigms

so many times

my head reels

my mustache curls

I split my personality

the one who’s me

the others not

nor knowing where I stand

sinking knee-deep in a bog

or on solid ground

or if, in fact, it’s even me

believing that the earth

is flat then round

or, just thinking,

why not square

that the earth revolves

around the sun

or the sun around

the earth

or that there is no sun

why not

in a universe

one of many where

anything is possible

I am La Gioconda

or possibly not

I think therefore I am

or even her.

Self Portrait - Basquiat

Self Portrait – Basquiat

Self-Portrait

(after the painting by Jean-Michel Basquiat)

Do you know me, who I really was

or only as a photograph on the cover

of a dog-eared magazine?

You know the one, whats-his-name,

the kid with a spray paint can

and an appetite for death.

News at Five:

“The kid who banged Madonna

fucked himself in a rush

of heroin. Story at eleven.”

b., 1960, d., 1982

“The art world celebrates his life

and auction price

rising from his death”—

my resurrection of sorts

in a life of highs and lows

I came too close to the sun

and it burned my soul

a fateful black.

Now you know me, or you don’t.

No matter, man,

what goes up must come down.