Tribute to the 17th United Nations Chinese Language Day
Portrait of Confucius
On the 17th United Nations Chinese Language Day we celebrate the timeless charm of Chinese characters a carrier of thousands of years of Eastern wisdom poetry and cultural heritage
Five years ago during the 12th UN Chinese Language Day one of the three core thematic lectures selected by the United Nations “The Mysterious Dongba Hieroglyphs” was solemnly held at our Dongba Culture Academy My respected master the 17th-generation Grand Dongba Priest Aheng Dongta appeared on the front page of the official United Nations website As a wise man of the Naxi people and the soul inheritor of Dongba culture he brought the world’s only living pictographic script to the global stage letting the wisdom of Dongba culture and the brilliance of Eastern civilization shine on the international stage
Dongba hieroglyphs are the living fossil of Naxi civilization a cultural code spanning millennia and a spiritual bridge connecting the past and present and linking civilizations As the sole female inheritor and international communicator of the Dongba culture of the UNESCO Memory of the World I will always stay true to my mission as a cultural messenger delving into the translation and research of Dongba ancient books to let this precious human cultural heritage revitalize in the new era Taking language as a bond I will promote dialogue and mutual learning among different civilizations injecting oriental energy into world peace and cultural prosperity
“Scene from “Midsummer Night’s Dream” by The Joffrey Ballet. (Photo: Cheryl Mann)”
Midsummer Night’s Dream
The Joffrey Ballet
Zellerbach Theater
Berkeley, California
Midsummer Madness
“We had this beautiful summer house in the Swedish countryside. My favorite thing was to run in the field in front of the house and pick seven different flowers to put them under my pillow. Tradition says that if you put these flowers under your pillow before you go to bed, you will dream of your future love.”—Anna von Hausswolff
When you go to see a performance titled “Midsummer Night’s Dream,” even when warned ahead of time it will be set in the pale summer night of Sweden, you can be forgiven for expecting a dependably Shakespearian outing, though this time with maybe a Scandinavian Oberon and Titania and a regiment of local gnomes, a confusion of misguided romantics bounding through an Arctic midnight forest, and maybe a donkey-headed Svenska Bottom and his rude mechanicals defying the stagy and the stage-struck and a teasing trickster of a northern Puck declaring while displaying to all the world: “What fools these mortals be!”
And you might even be forgiven if, in the opening moments of the performance, you feel slightly disappointed that, no, this is not quite what you are about to be graced with this chilly spring evening.
But then, if you have always loved a surprise, especially when it is packaged as a bonbon and then explodes into a party, your expectations are turned on their head and go leaping in cartwheels across the stage, as if the whole theater had been turned into a circus expressly for your entertainment, and you find yourself with little alternative but to let yourself be blissfully carried away for the rest of the enchanted evening. There are a lot worse disappointments! And it’s easy enough to imagine Puck roaring with laughter up his gossamer sleeve.
Such, anyway, was this viewer’s experience when Cal Performances brought The Joffrey Ballet to the Zellerbach Theater on the UC Berkeley campus over a weekend this April. I’m still sorting out all the chaos of revelries that made it one of the most memorable evenings of a season that has had, frankly, a lot of competition.
The dance was divided into two parts, the first running a little under, the second a little over an hour, but who’s counting? The proof of any wonder is how fast it seems to fill any pocket of time with riches, and yet how brief it all seems in the end.
The first half opens, with deceptive minimalism, with a buffed up young man (a fine Dylan Gutierrez, who served as our point of contact for the evening; it’s his dream, after all, that we’re sharing) as he tries, unsuccessfully, to go to sleep in the glaring Scandinavian midsummer night. His bed stands in front of the stage curtain on which random sayings are projected, immediately dissolving: “Pick some strawberries!” “Meet me in the meadow,” “Sven is drunk,” “I prefer Christmas,” “Do you still love me?” . . .
A graceful young woman (the excellent Victoria Jaiani, who will be our main point of romance for the evening) bearing a sheaf of hay, dances down the aisle and up to the stage, waking the young man and then whisking him away through a crack in the curtain, which opens up to a wild, choppy confusion of dozens of dancers thrashing and dashing and flailing across a stage blanketed with golden hay like a vast field at the height of harvest season. From here on, we are far from the forest of Arden, but never far from magic.
The first act unfolds as a kind of bacchantic fertility rite, a revelry of farm workers dancing and playing, not only in, but with the hay, at the foot of a tall, mask-like pagan symbol, integrating a cross, an arrow, and two eye-like wreaths, erected above them.
The dancing workers whisk about, flail and harvest and roll the hay up into tub-like bundles which as used as little stages for couples dancing for love and delight, and they finally cast it all back into a long, luxurious play on the eternal idea of a sweetly innocent roll in the hay, quite literally.
A long table is then rolled out, and the hay is swept gaily off the stage, and the host of workers gather and celebrate the harvest in a traditional banquet. A solitary singer (the magical Anna von Hausswolff, who will appear at especially mysterious and lyrical moments) comes out and sings of the peace and joy of the long festival of summer in these cold and northern climes.
Then the revelry resumes, leading up to a long, strange, mysterious moment, when all the dancers, arranged in an almost intimidating phalanx stretching from end to end of the stage, approach the edge and, wreathed in enigmatic smiles, stare at the audience as if waiting for us to . . . do what?
There was nervous laughter, nervous applause, a little bout of rhythmic clapping, tense silence, and childlike wonder at what it all meant, as the dancers gazed silent as the midsummer sun on the puzzled mortals beneath them, then, just as mysteriously, dissolved back into seemingly random reveling.
The first act ended with one of the evening’s most magical moments, as the dancers moved up and down the long banquet table, bearing candelabras, until they stepped down to and across the darkened stage, off the stage, into the audience and up the aisles, with candelabras still aloft, until they froze, staring at the audience with mad charm.
The first half had many such marvels of enchantment. But it provided nothing to prepare us for what we would see in the second: a fever earthquake, tidal wave of inventions without end, technique without boundaries, a pagan unleashing in a teeming, ecstatic nightmare – for what would a dance about a dream be without the challenge of a nightmare? And everybody rose to meet it, conquered, and conquered again and again for the rest of a dream no one wanted, honestly, to wake from.
Because when was a nightmare ever more turbulent, tumultuous, tumacious, titillating, terrifying fun? Not only did the choreography raise its game to undreamed of heights, and the dancers follow, ever braver and more victorious than the last, but so did the set, the lighting, the props; nor forget the brilliance of music and musicians, never left behind, indeed often leading, including, later, in a soft passage after the seemingly endless rolling frieze of thrills of the opening, the already mentioned singer, who capped many a manic moment with a soft, still climax.
Did I forget the humor? Unforgivable! Because this was a production that, in its deeply romantic and pagan heart, knows how to laugh, out of pure high spirits and unshackled joy. I will mention only the giant Max Ernst fishes landing at unexpected moments or parading enormously across the boards, and the gleeful gigglers prancing in the odd corner at the odd moment, and the tutu-refined would-be swanners undermined in their earnest pliés by the gleeful gigglers and snarky bystanders, and the dueling immaculately haberdashed duo of headless gentlemen (Edson Barbarosa and Aaron Reneteria) bouncing around the stage with arms flailing and trading slaps at each other’s invisible heads, and the half-naked chef (danced with elegant insouciance by Fernando Duarte) parading around en pointe and buff-butted for much of the act in a chef’s hat and apron – and nothing else, my friend. He was, no doubt, a stand-in for the chef of this spectacular banquet of a production, the choreographer (and set designer) Alexander Ekman, as fine a magician of dance and stage as, I believe after this evening, we now have among us.
The music, a heady combination of contemporary and classical, pop, experimental and traditional Swedish folk music, and played live by a sextet of strings, piano and percussion, was by Michael Karlsson. The ingenious lighting design was originally created by Linus Fellbrom and re-created, not least the ribbons of lights hanging above the audience in the image of a circus tent, for the Zellerbach performance by Chris Maravich.
I think the fairies of Arden would have mightily approved.
_____
Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet, novelist, playwright, and essayist. His most recent book is the poetry collection The Beauty of Matter: A Pagan’s Verses for a Mystic Idler.
First, some announcements. Tao Yucheng invites the winners of the poetry contest he hosted earlier this year to contact him at taoyucheng921129@proton.me. He’ll send out the prize money this month. He also announces that no one person won the Honorable Mention (there was a tie among multiple pieces) so he will automatically enter those pieces in the next competition, which will be at a yet-to-be-determined date this summer.
Also, contributor Mykyta Ryzhykh has a new book out, Tombboy, from Lost Telegram Press.
“In his book, as in books of poems written in poetic forms and free verse, language moves through a pattern, and the basic organizing unit is the line. In tombboy, the line may be a syllable, a sign, an image, or even a dot… Readers may rightfully assume that many, even all the poems in tombboy are anti-war poems… yet it would be inaccurate to infer these concrete poems are doctrinaire, or purely political. Nor are they autobiographical. But they are personal, intuitive, original, and memorable, each with something to show…” – Peter Mladinic, author of House Sitting, Knives on the Table and many other books
“tombboy is filled with an experimental spirit, combining fearless phrasing with satirical madness. The result is a fascinating examination of the human condition… it seems there are no limits to his masterful creativity. Each page of this book will grab your attention. tombboy deserves a prominent spot on your bookshelf.” – Roberta Beach Jacobson, editor of Five Fleas Itchy Poetry and smols poetry journal
Welcome to Synchronized Chaos’ mid-April issue: A Chorus at the Threshold. This issue presents a chorus of voices singing, speaking, sometimes whispering, at different types of thresholds. People of different ages and backgrounds come together in this issue, each sharing thoughts, observations, and feelings at points of shifting and transformation.
Some of these thresholds are deeply interior. Adalat Gafarov Izzet oglu’s poetry is contemplative and reverent, with a focus on spirituality and the search for meaning. John Edward Culp speaks to self-discovery, love, and finding one’s own rhythm in life. Duane Vorhees’ poetry forms a cohesive meditation on struggle, distance, and the human effort to bridge impossible gaps—whether spiritual, emotional, or existential. Mesfakus Salahin’s piece highlights self-exploration in times of solitude, as Maja Milojkovic laments the increasing unwanted loneliness caused by the setup of much of modern life. Mahbub Alam probes the highs and lows and capacities of human nature, highlighting the need for empathy and compassion. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry is romantic and melancholic, expressing deep emotions and longing. Poet and physician Anwer Ghani suggests that despite our attempts to conceal our emotions, they can still be sensed and felt.
J.J. Campbell’s writing touches on his inner shadows: feelings of isolation, the desire for a simple, authentic life, and the pain of his loneliness and inner demons. Ana May likewise writes from the doorway between suffering and transformation, insisting that pain must be faced if it is ever to yield meaning. Fhen M.’s eerie poem recollects the legend of G. Bragolin’s Crying Boy painting surviving house fires, meditating on trauma and memory. Thi Lan Anh Tran depicts the complex, multilayered social and psychological effects of both romantic love and war. Amina Kasim Muhammad’s poem illuminates how people rebuild after the loss of a loved one, growing around rather than overcoming grief. In David Sapp’s vignettes and Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s scenes of personal and public tragedy, ordinary life itself becomes a threshold where loss is transfigured through memory and grief into reverence.
Other voices gather at the threshold between childhood and adulthood. Yeon Myeong-ji and Hamdamova Dilzodaxon Halimjon qizi craft scenes of family love, care, and loss. Their work, and Jacques Fleury’s return to his father and their childhood treehouse, all stand in that tender doorway between then and now. Sarvinoz Bakhtiyorova depicts the impact of remembering one’s past and how that can shape one’s identity. Here, affection survives distance and the past remains startlingly alive.
Nature, too, shifts throughout this issue, with pieces about seasons and the liminal spaces between dreams and reality. In Stephen Jarrell Williams’s idyllic vision, the act of learning to fly becomes an awakening into another mode of being. Elaine Murray’s visionary reflections on natural landscapes, Charos Ismoilova’s gratitude for the sunrise, Ananya Guha’s pensive thoughts on seasonal time, Graciela Noemi Villaverde’s vision of a world where humans protect and care for the natural world, Joseph Ogbonna’s song to a nightingale, and Brian Barbeito’s dream journey scenes of birds, constellations, and moonlight all invite us to the threshold between the visible and the unseen. Sayani Mukherjee’s luminous piece on the sacred mystery of existence completes this movement, reminding us that existence itself is a continual process of change.
History and heritage form another vital threshold in these pages—the place where inheritance meets the present moment. Dr. Jihane El Feghali’s tribute to Lebanon, radiant with resilience and memory, stands beside Ilya Ganpantsura’s portrait of Pushkin, writing in a nation poised between autocracy and intellectual freedom. Abdulaxilova Sevara’s meditation on Yusuf and Zulayha reveals divine and human love, earthly devotion blended with spiritual transcendence. Eva Lianou Petropoulou shares the tale of miraculous holy fire burning the day before Easter in Jerusalem’s Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Lan Xin acknowledges the shared humanity and commonalities within the heritage of the world’s people, finding harmony within global religious teachings, and Bhagirath Chowdhary echoes that sentiment in his poem. Mohizoda Xurshiq qizi Roziqova discusses Uzbekistan’s legacy of teacher-apprentice training in the trades as Shokhida Nazirova highlights the Uzbek government’s investment in youth education, athletics, and personal development. The works rooted in Uzbek heritage further remind us that culture survives through crossings: hand to hand, teacher to student, voice to voice.
The chorus also rises at the threshold leading to justice.
Sim Wooki confronts racism and colonial power, while Patricia Doyne and Manik Chakraborty write from the brink where historical violence and oppression not only cast a shadow upon the present, but continues to this day. Alan Catlin and Stephen House stand at the moral threshold of witness, asking what it means to remain human before scenes of suffering, ecological damage, and collective harm. These are works that refuse the comfort of distance. They ask us not merely to observe, but to consider the ethics of paying attention.
Jernail S. Anand looks at compassion, care and the consequences of individual actions. Mykyta Ryzhykh highlights the dissonance between our ideals of gentleness and innocence and abusive human behavior that falls short of these ideals. Asalbonu Otamurodova’s reflections on boundaries offer another kind of threshold: the necessary line where care for others must meet care for the self.
Art itself becomes another form of threshold, creating space for various ideas and sensibilities to meet and overlap. Noah Berlatsky considers how even a weathered, broken artwork can convey meaning, how the breakage can become part of the work. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope’s joint short story humorously compares an ordinary couple with historically famous idealized sculptures of people, finding in favor of the average, imperfect, but real, married couple. To’lquinay Ubukulova points out creative people’s current dependence on technology of various sorts. Jerrice J. Baptiste’s poems and paintings of women highlight their individuality, strength of character, and connection to the natural world. Juraeva Aziza Rakhmatovna interviews Croatian writer and poet Ankica Anchia, illuminating her love for her nation and birthplace as creative inspiration.
Ummusalma Nasir Mukhtar celebrates the power of writers to move society forward through their creativity, as Bill Tope explores his personal literary motivations. Ri Hossain analyzes themes in his own poetry, highlighting his combination of materialism and surrealism and how he renders urban realities through free verse. Gionni Valentin’s fragmented thoughts, images, and reflections explore themes of creativity, self-discovery, and the human condition. Kandy Fontaine describes post-Beat poetics, defined by inclusivity, community, focus on embodied and lived experience with living writers, and rejection of hierarchies and trophies. Patrick Sweeney’s tiny poetic fragments touch on art, identity, nature, history, and relationships. Joshua Martin’s poems combine lexical debris, media fragments, bureaucratic residue, and historical ruin, while Mark Young’s fragmented transmissions emerge from different frequencies of reality.
What binds these many works is not sameness, but shared arrival. Each piece stands at some edge—of understanding, of memory, of identity, of survival—and from that edge it calls out. The result is a true chorus: not a single melody, but many voices meeting in resonance.
Chorus at the Threshold sums up this collection because every page invites crossing. Between sorrow and wonder. Between history and dream. Between the self we have been and the self we are still becoming. Yet, many of these doors remain open, so that the thoughts and impressions in one “room” carry forward along one’s journey or can be remembered.
May you enter these pages with openness, attentiveness, and the quiet recognition that something in you may emerge changed.
On Ri Hossain: A Synthesis of Materialism and Surrealism
In the discourse of blending materialistic and surrealist thoughts in poetry, Ri Hossain (known professionally as Iqbal Hossain) stands as a distinctive modern voice. His poetry captures the harsh realities of contemporary urban life while simultaneously employing surreal imagery and timeless traditions to transcend those very realities.
The Materialist Lens: Reflection of Reality In Ri Hossain’s work, we observe the reflection of contemporary unrest, mechanization, and global crises. As an entrepreneur and a busy professional, he has witnessed the rugged facets of society firsthand, which manifests in his writing as ‘objective truth.’ His poems frequently depict the struggles of the common man and the erosion of moral values. His choice of words is often modern and direct—a key characteristic of materialist philosophy.
The Surrealist Dimension: Beyond the Visible However, he does not limit himself to objective descriptions. His poetry often crosses the boundaries of the visible world to create a mysterious realm of the subconscious. He utilizes imagery that transports the reader away from reality toward a transcendental sensation. Many critics identify this as ‘Modern Sufism’ or ‘Surreal Spirituality.’ In many of his poems, words do not merely convey literal meanings but create a surrealistic atmosphere where the past, present, and future merge into one.
The Bridge Between Two Worlds Ri Hossain’s specialty lies in his ability to bridge these two streams. This synthesis operates on several levels: * Universal Appeal: When his personal emotions (surreal) align with impersonal social truths (materialism), his poetry attains a universal dimension. * Depth of Expression: By presenting life’s inconsistencies through a surrealist lens, he makes them far more poignant and profound than simple descriptions would allow.
Global Reach and Significance His poems have been translated into various languages, including English, Spanish, and Albanian, proving that his integrated poetic style resonates with international audiences. He has successfully transformed ‘indigenous reality’ into a ‘surrealistic global language.’
Conclusion Ri Hossain’s contribution to this trend of Bengali poetry is significant for several reasons. By utilizing Free Verse, he ensures the intellectual freedom necessary for surreal expression. Moving beyond conventional styles, he has carved out a unique niche by wrapping materialist social thought in a shroud of spiritual and surreal philosophy.
In short, Ri Hossain’s poetry does not merely speak of the earth; rather, it maps the surreal landscape of the subconscious mind and the universal soul rooted deep within that earth.
Even when horns sprout and its coat grows coarse, it cannot cross the tether tied to the stake.
With powerful hind legs and broad shoulders, it still cannot pull it out— the stake is God.
Though it knows it is a losing battle, stubbornness— that is a goat’s way.
It circles back, round and round, even if the rope winds tight around its neck until it can no longer move,
it goes as far as it can.
For a goat whose world is only the length of the rope, the stake is the center of the world.
It is power.
Still, the goat goes round and round.
말뚝
어린 흑염소에겐 힘은 말뚝이다
뿔이 나고 털이 억세져도
말뚝의 끈을 넘지 못한다
강한 뒷다리와 넓은 어깨로도
뽑지 못하는 말뚝은 신
늘 지는 싸움인 줄 알지만
고집은 염소고집
돌아와 빙글빙글 돌다
제 목을 감아 옴짝달싹 못하게 될지라도
갈 데까지 가고 본다
밧줄의 길이만큼이 세상인 염소에게
말뚝은 세상의 중심이다
권력이다
그래도 염소는 뱅글뱅글 돈다
Black Man Sim Woo Ki
Because the skin was black, there was an ignorance that believed even the blood would be black.
The gaze that did not retreat even before the red muzzle— we have long misunderstood it, hiding behind the name Africa.
Descriptions of thick lips and heavy hair were, in truth, cowardly adjectives summoned to conceal the invader’s fear— this we know only now.
Before a language we could not understand, before an unfamiliar laughter, we always stood closer to guns than to understanding.
When sunlight slips across skin like black velvet, even that praise—“its sheen”— was a metaphor we had stolen.
We said only the teeth and palms were white, that clapping made the primal rhythm— but in truth, it was not a place untouched by civilization, but where arrogant civilization had stalled.
The fathers of fathers— time flowing above them, an erased chronicle, unrecorded.
Calling the scent of sweat and soil “savage,” we hid, with effort, the stench of blood that came from our own side.
Those whose hearts were darker than skin set fire to forests and raised their guns; God was silent, the forest became a table, and people returned to the earth before beasts did.
What was called a scream, what was written as a howl— it was the oldest tactic, reading the trajectory of bullets with the whole body.
When barefoot warriors drew circles of blood and danced, they were not calling God they were calling the names that must survive.
Africa, Africa— this repetition is not incantation but a desperate calling not to be erased.
When the earth trembles like the ankle of an elephant, when history charges like a rhinoceros, those who stand, precarious, between god and beast— they are not savages, but those who first chose to be human.
When poisoned arrows are loosed at invaders, when broad-chested women dance, it is not a cry of victory, but a solemn gesture postponing their own funerals.
I still speak of Africa, but perhaps I am only tracing, at last, the shadow of the darkness within me.
블랙맨
피부가 검으니 피조차 검을 것이라 믿어온 무지(無知)가 있었다 붉은 총구 앞에서도 물러서지 않던 그 눈빛을 우리는 오래도록 오해해 왔다, 아프리카라는 이름 뒤에 숨어
털이 많고 입술이 두텁다는 묘사는 사실 침입자의 두려움을 감추기 위해 동원된 비겁한 형용사였음을 이제야 안다
알아들을 수 없는 언어와 낯선 웃음 앞에서 우리는 늘 이해보다 총에 더 가까이 서 있었다 검은 비로드 같은 피부 위로 햇살이 미끄러질 때 그 ‘윤기’라는 찬사조차 우리가 훔쳐온 비유였음을 고백한다
하얀 것은 이빨과 손바닥뿐이라며 박수로 태초의 리듬을 만든다고 말했지만 사실 그것은 문명이 닿지 않은 곳이 아니라 오만한 문명이 멈춰 선 자리였다
아버지의 아버지, 그 위로 흐르는 시간은 기록되지 못한 채 지워진 연대기 땀과 흙의 체취를 야만이라 부르며 내 쪽에서 흐르는 피비린내를 애써 숨겼다
피부보다 더 시커먼 마음을 가진 자들이 숲에 불을 놓고 총을 들 때 신은 침묵했고 숲은 밥상이 되었으며 사람은 짐승보다 먼저 흙으로 돌아갔다
괴성이라 불린 소리, 울부짖음이라 적힌 목소리 그것은 날아오는 탄환의 궤적을 온몸으로 읽어내는 가장 오래된 전술이었다
맨발의 전사들이 피의 원을 그리며 춤출 때 그들은 신을 부른 것이 아니라 서로의 살아남을 이름을 불렀을 뿐이다
아프리카, 아프리카 이 반복은 주술이 아니라 지워지지 않기 위한 처절한 호명(呼名)
코끼리의 발목처럼 땅이 진동하고 역사가 코뿔소처럼 돌진해 올 때 신과 동물의 경계에 위태롭게 선 이들은 야만이 아니라 가장 먼저 인간이기를 선택한 존재들
침입자를 향해 독화살을 날리고 가슴 큰 여자들이 춤을 출 때 그것은 승리의 환호가 아니라 자신의 장례를 잠시 미루는 비장한 몸짓이었다
나는 아직도 아프리카를 말하고 있지만 사실은 내가 가진 검은 마음의 그늘을 겨우 더듬고 있는지도 모른다
Biography of Poet Sim Wooki
Poet Sim Wooki was born on July 4, 1964, in Hamyeol, Jeollabuk-do, South Korea. He completed his doctoral coursework in English Literature at Gachon University in 2013.
His literary debut came in 2011 with the publication of his work in Poetry Literature. In 2012, he was awarded a creative writing grant from the Seoul Foundation for Arts and Culture. In 2013, he published his first poetry collection, Thirteen Ways of Seeing a Black Flower, which was selected as a Sejong Outstanding Book in 2014.
In 2016, he expanded his literary reach with the publication of his poetry collection in English, Read My Love, You. Over the years, he has authored several additional works, including his second collection Secret Envoy, as well as Ice Pillar of Fireand The Day the First Snow Falls, the latter co-authored.
In addition to his writing, Sim Wooki has contributed to academia by teaching at Kyungwon University, Inha Technical College, and Gachon University.
Why do I write creative fiction? That was a question posed to me by a cousin I was once close to. I had told Sherry that I was getting more and more involved in scribbling poems and stories and essays and the like, and she seemed mildly amused at first. Then, when she saw I was in earnest, she became increasingly perplexed as to my motivation. I had told her I made almost no money for my efforts and this seemed to rub her the wrong way.
“Why, then,” she asked in bewilderment, “do you do it?”
Until that very moment I hadn’t given it a lot of serious thought. Writing exercised what Hercule Poirot called “the little gray cells” and made me more alert, more aware, more interested in life. Moreover, it made me feel good. I was retired and had little else going on. Most of my friends were deceased or moved away.
“Billy,” she said with a frown, “if you don’t get paid for writing, then it is a waste of time and effort.”
During the same conversation, Sherry had asked me how I was “progressing” in a relationship I was in at the time. When I was noncommittal, she got down to it: “Have you scored yet?”
“Not everything,” I told her, “is so transactional.”
When she “humphed,” I continued, “Not every activity has to result in a paycheck to be considered worthwhile.” Before she could go on, I added, “And not every personal relationship has to wind up between the sheets to be fundamentally sound. No one is keeping ‘score,’ cousin, so just cool your jets.”
That was two years ago, but the question remains: why do I write?”
I think it’s because when I write, I am master of my universe. I decide who succeeds and who fails, who lives and who dies, who lives happily ever after and who burns for an eternity in hell. This is quite an ego trip. I know a little of what God must feel like. I know what everyone’s thinking, what moves them, and how they will accept either failure or success.
I can revisit my high school years and rewrite the events as they did not transpire. I can ask out the prettiest but most demure girl and she’ll say yes. And I’ll have the dough to take her out. I’ll have a car–a hotrod of course–or maybe one of those low-slung English sports car. Nothing is too much.
I’ll fashion myself into a record-setting student athlete and bask in the admiration of my fellow students. I’ll get an A in calculus rather than a D. I’ll try out for and grab the lead in the school play. It’ll be a musical, because unlike reality as I lived it, I’ll be able to sing. And join a garage band and wind up with a record contract.
I’ll stand up to my abusive brother and fight back and kick his ass. I’ll get the after-school job I could never get and earn money to take out more pretty girls. In college I’ll study and not party but for the spring breaks in Florida that I could never afford to attend. I’ll make my parents proud and they’ll never have to bail me out.
I’ll say none of the stupid things in life that I did say. I won’t hurt anybody’s feelings and won’t allow either of my two cats to die and my best friend won’t have abusive parents. I won’t be teased for having Tourette’s or being disabled with Parkinson’s Disease and peripheral artery disease and poor eyesight and hearing and all the rest. I’ll still be able to lift my weight and play soccer and run five miles. If not myself, then others will carry the banner and succeed where I failed abysmally.
I write so that things turn out right, and not to shit. I live vicariously through my characters; I learn lessons I was too stubborn or dense to heed before. I am a normal child, teen, and now old man. I have children and grandchildren who flock around me in my dotage, rather than live alone in a hovel in the American Midwest. That’s why I write.
Sherry and I have not spoken since she posed her question, but I’m alright with it. I’ll know now what to tell her, should she ever call again. But she’ll not be argumentative this time, since I’ll be writing the script.
