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Cristina Deptula interviews Italian and American filmmaker, actor and screenwriter Federico Wardal

Federico Wardal is an Italian playwright, screenplay writer and director and acting instructor. He speaks widely on topics related to human rights and his artistic craft and currently lives in San Francisco.
Cristina:  
First off, please introduce yourself! We’ve got an audience from around the world, and not everyone may be familiar with the world of live theater or independent films. 
Wardal: 
It is not easy to introduce myself as Wardal, as I consider Wardal a “faceted character” due to the influences of the Nobel Prize-winner Pirandello, Einstein and my mentor Federico Fellini.
To be more clear, I could consider [my persona] Wardal an invented imaginary author, arising out of the ideas of the ancient authors from Greece, Pirandello, and his friend Einstein. I love Einstein’s theory of relativity and think Fellini was inspired by Pirandello and Einstein when he created his film “8 1/2.” 
From the first time I appeared on the stage as Wardal at the age of 14 years old, my aspect was (and is) an artifact, built up, never natural or simple, and sensational and amazing.

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Novel excerpt from Carol Smallwood

Excerpt from In Hubble’s Shadow by Carol Smallwood.

*****

Midwestern Spring
     Spring is the season that brings Midwesterners the most anticipation: the brown to green, the burst of delicate pink and white blossoms on fruit trees, the low dare devil swooping of nesting birds while driving—a welcoming confirmation that we made it through. Even dandelions delight our eyes, scattered replicas of the Sun. The first grass mowing. A celebration as new leaves cover bare limbs to make changing patterns of shade. We open the car windows driving past lilacs.
Citation: Smallwood, Carol, In Hubble’s Shadow (Brunswick, Maine: Shanti Arts Publishing, 2017). Used with permission of the publisher; www.shantiarts.com

Essay from Donal Mahoney

My Parents Were Illegal Irish Immigrants in the United States

Joseph Francis O'Mahony, first row, third from left, circa 1920, age 16, all dressed up and looking older than 16 as a prisoner of the English on Spike Island a few years before he emigrated to the United States. There he became a  citizen and the judge told him to change his name to Mahoney, a decision he would bemoan like a banshee for years.  Permission to use this photo has been obtained from the Waterford County Museum in Ireland.

Joseph Francis O’Mahony, first row, third from left, circa 1920, age 16, all dressed up and looking older than 16 as a
prisoner of the English on Spike Island a few years before he emigrated to the United States. There he became a
citizen and the judge told him to change his name to Mahoney, a decision he would bemoan like a banshee for years.
Permission to use this photo has been obtained from the Waterford County Museum in Ireland.

In 1920, my father, 16, was a guest of the British government. He was a prisoner of their forces occupying Ireland at the time, a group called the Black and Tans.
 
One day he and seven other prisoners were brought out of their makeshift cells to dig their own graves in a small walled compound. As tradition would have it, they would be shot into their graves and other prisoners would be brought out to bury them.
 
By prearranged signal, the eight men dropped their shovels and broke for the wall. Bullets stopped five of them but the other three climbed over the wall and made it through the rural Irish countryside to freedom. One of the escapees eventually went to Australia, another to Canada. My father made it to America. 
 
The story doesn’t end there, of course, and he only told it once. But even if you were only in eighth grade, as I was at the time, it’s not a story you forget.

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Poetry from Vijay Nair

GAY HAMLET

Hi’story is a fiction false Wolf clothing in Sheep’s Run against the clock Closet in truth that coffin Wonder longer not nine that trumpet Everywhere all tricks of trade An old dog not to be taught A new Shakespeare chance upon Has greatness that Hamlet thrust upon Water no hold, a waterloo Hearing you not that whistle blow? Wicked flee not if Man pursuits it in soul Bacon a foster soul Blessed in disguise Shakespeare Some six fold six plays All sonnets a legacy Art lies in concealing art, irony What Ovid foreseen An answer, no Shakespeare is enigma Hamlet in heavenly procrastination Claudius not upon him avenge Annoyed that man delighted not him Truth untold a broken heart hubris His honest a hideous mirror debris Word play in he a Pete Sampras What a piece of work a man! Philosophy, brother double a mankind Dubbed verses of Denmark Prince Defenceless was he a pseudo Christ Ethos his passivism embodied inaction Pagan he an Achilles no Don Quixote Out of joint time was his revenge With wings as not with swift as meditation Daggers at her Cost a terrible dapper Malleable Mom she frailty not With rotten son adultery not His mother fixation a failed Psycho fancy

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Poetry from Tony Nightwalker LeTigre

goodwill gone bad

didn’t it used to be cheaper?
I swear, there’s new stuff at Wal-Mart for sale for less than this
donated shoes for fifty dollars?
security closely watching the floor?

imagine a huge free pile
where people throw all their giveaways
open to the sky & free for the taking:
a mound of unspoiled human generosity

“the money we make helps us fund all the programs we offer,”
says the clerk in a perky voice
yeah…
& it helps pay your CEO that million-dollar salary he enjoys
what programs does Goodwill offer?
job search assistance, that’s right
the one time I tried to make use of that, they told me,
“the only position we have right now
is a receptionist for the church of scientology”

I decided to pass on that

GIVE says the sign
yes, I agree
but not to Willamette Week
not to Goodwill, International INC. (emphasis mine)
not to nonprofit wolves in sheep’s clothing
directly to the people who need it
_____________________________________

white yuppie privilege

at Peet’s, sipping coffee purchased with a christmas-present gift card
only place I have to warm up on this holiday
(christmas was a lot nicer indoors)
small cafe, seats filled
white arrogant yuppie couple comes in
complains about no place to sit
long-term portland resident gets up wordlessly
to yield his seat to these crocodiles
who promptly sit down & begin talking with their fellows at the next table
about what part of california they come from,
& how nice the real estate is here

and the tourists wonder
why I’m so rude
when I almost knock them down at Powell’s books

and the new gentry wonders
why there are so many houseless people sprouting up everywhere

look in the mirror, creepazoids
you’ll find at least part of the answer
to your oh so pressing vexations
they could make a movie about you
“Invasion of the Property Snatchers”

_________________________________

 

frozen fingers

slept outside again last night
in the leeway of a foursquare church
that was kind enough to leave its searchlights on
so I could read myself to sleep
except it was too cold to read

didn’t sleep well
took a sleeping pill at 330 am
thinking I’d sleep in a bit
woke up at 730 am to a large black man shouting
fight-or-flight surge: norepinephrine reflex
but he’s “nice” I suppose
“GOOD MORNING!
I hope you’re warm enough
You’re welcome to sleep here
but please don’t leave any garbage when you leave!
Here’s a receptacle to throw it in”
He stresses the garbage thing several times
If I’d just throw myself in the bin it’d be more convenient I suppose

I’m not warm enough, actually, but… thanks for the hope
I walk away rubbing sleep out of my eyes
with frozen fingers & toes
trying to contain my falling-apart sleeping bag
thinking, “I’m supposed to be grateful for this, I guess”

stash my stuff in a hopefully safe spot
go to the yuppie grocery pavilion
buy coffee I could have made free if I had a house
go to pour almond milk on my granola for breakfast
the milk that spend the night outside with me
it’s frozen: doesn’t pour

________________________________


The Moment We Decide to Rise, We Thrive

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Christopher Bernard reviews Antigona at San Francisco’s Z Space Theater

Marvels and Terrors

Antigona

Soledad Barrio and Noche Flamenca

Z Space

San Francisco

Noche-Flamenca-21-375x513

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviewed by Christopher Bernard

 

“In the world there are many terrors and marvels,

but none more marvelous, and more terrifying, than man.”

—Sophocles, from his tragedy Antigone

 

Noche Flamenca brought its dance version of Sophocles’ famous tragedy to Z Space in San Francisco for an unfortunately short run this February. (Short because, as the result of an injury, the first week of performances had to be cancelled.)

However, the rest of the run remains, and there is still time to see one of the most intense evenings in dance you are likely to see this season.

Sophocles’ searing play touches on some of the profoundest issue of human life: family versus the state, love versus politics, the gods versus man, feminine versus masculine values.

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Shining determination: A Thousand Splendid Suns at San Francisco’s American Conservatory Theater

a_thousand_splendid_suns_1130x300

Last week I enjoyed a production of A Thousand Splendid Suns, a stage adaptation of Khaled Hosseini’s novel by Ursula Rani Sarma and directed by Carey Perloff, at San Francisco’s American Conservatory Theater. 

The title, from a 17th century poem written by Saib-e-Tabrizi as he passed through Afghanistan on his way from Persia to India, celebrates Kabul’s landscape and people. 

Taking place over the past forty years of Kabul’s history, the play reveals more of the Afghan nationals’ raw fortitude than the place’s evocative beauty. Yet, the strength and determination of main characters Laila and Mariam becomes its own kind of splendor. 

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Synchronized Chaos February 2017: In Conversation

 

This month’s submissions represent literal or metaphorical conversations: snippets of overheard or spoken dialogue, responses to cultural ideas or to others’ writing, or poetic tension among various ideas or emotional states.

Some contributors directly show people talking, or interacting in different ways.

Joe Balaz offers up two poems written in the dialect of Hawaiian Pidgin, intending to preserve the language and illustrate its capacity to convey thoughtful poetry. His poetic subjects talk conversationally to readers, expressing confidence in their hunting prowess and in everyday life.

Tony Nightwalker LeTigre contributes poetry about non-judgement and being happy in the moment, enjoying skate parks and memories and hot chocolate. His work reminds me of another local urban character from San Francisco: Lisa Demb, the creator of the ‘Happy Armageddon’ street art series, colorful pieces about how change, even the supposed ‘end of the world’ that we fear, could be viewed as a source of wonder and adventure rather than simply destruction.

Tony’s other piece this month provides character sketches of folks out and about in Portland, Oregon, in various real and imagined encounters.

Joan Beebe’s poetry honors the strength of married love, which can be seen as one long conversation. Another piece honors her pilot nephew Kyle.

Some ‘conversations’ are less literal and come across as dialogue between seemingly opposed ideas.

Mahbub’s short poetic lines convey bursts of thought, illustrating the continual tension between love and fear.

Donal Mahoney’s character sketch grapples with the seeming opposites of life and death and ultimately celebrates life through showing an older man who interacts more naturally at wakes than parties. He’s found a way to make peace with mortality, although perhaps not the eventual loss of his much-loved wife.

J.J. Campbell’s poetry evokes a sense of loss, as pieces show heartbreak or a diminished belief in himself and those around him. The lack of capitalization and short lines of his writing further emphasize the somber mood. Yet he still believes in himself enough to create, to not give in to total obliteration.

Other writers create pieces in response to other cultural ideas, review books, or draw on other writers’ thoughts to convey their own.

Vijay Nair critiques strains of Western feminism that he believes focus only on female sexual self-expression to the exclusion of other aspects of female and human life.

Christopher Bernard finishes up Trumplandia, his poetic sequence where he channels the energies of departed poets in the canon, including T.S. Eliot, Basho, and Emily Dickinson, to respond to the absurdity of the U.S. political situation.

Bernard also reviews San Francisco’s Curran Theater production of the musical Fun Home, based on Alison Bechdel’s graphic novel of the same title, which comments on family, sexuality and secrets through mordant (and morbid!) wit.

Randle Aubrey speculates on how the USA may be ripe for the rise of a new political party focused on the interests of labor and the working classes.

Christopher Bernard provides a review of Mary Mackey’s novel The Village of Bones: Sabalah’s Tale, taking a thoughtful look at her book’s hypothetical Goddess-worshiping, Neolithic European society while acknowledging its beauty.

We encourage you to join the conversation by reading these submissions and leaving comments for the writers.

Also FYI for Bay Area folks, you are invited to Synchronized Chaos Magazine’s upcoming winter gathering, which will take place Saturday February 18th at 6pm at Cafe Flore (2298 Market St). https://www.facebook.com/events/1854729918104002/

RSVP appreciated but not required, all welcome, all ages, light snacks provided, bring books to read from and sell, bring something to read in the open mic, or just bring yourself and enjoy the night!

Mechanism Conversation by Dany Jack Mercier (2012)

Mechanism Conversation by Dany Jack Mercier (2012)

 

Poetry from Joe Balaz

BOUNTY BOB

“Bounty Bob”

wuz wun really good pig hunter.

He wuz humble too

but he wuz wun man’s man

tough and determined in da bush.

Everybody knew

who da king of da mountain wuz.

Bob took it all in stride

and he wuz always cool.

He went aftah da big male boars

out deah in da rain forest.

Dat wuz plenty of meat

to trow into wun freezer

foa family and friends.

Da whole hunting experience

wuz also wun spiritual trip to Bob

and he usually came back

wit wun good catch foa his kitchen table.

Dats why everybody

called him “Bounty Bob.”

Wen he wen pull

into wun gas station

wit da latest big boar

in da back of his pickup truck

wun nearby tourist in wun rented car

wuz all excited

and she just had to take wun picture.

She went up to Bob

by da gas pump and told him

dat she could send him                                                                                                                        wun copy of da photo

if he wanted one.

Da reply wuz classic—

No need wun picture.

I not into dat.

I already know 

wat da buggah look like.”

“Bounty Bob”

hunter extraordinaire.

He gets his game on all levels.

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Christopher Bernard reviews Mary Mackey’s novel The Village of Bones: Sabalah’s Tale

Mary Mackey

Femina Potens

The Village of Bones: Sabalah’s Tale

A novel by Mary Mackey

Published by the author in association with Lowenstein Associates

280 pages

A review by Christopher Bernard

villageofbones

Mary Mackey’s new book is a prequel to Earth Song, a highly praised series of novels set in a speculative world in the millennia before the blossoming of the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia. Earth Song, beginning with The Year the Horses Came, follows the epic story of Marrah, the “savior of her people” and later princess-queen of Shara, a settlement sacred to Mother Earth, and of her daughter Luma, who carries on Marrah’s tradition of leadership and heroism.

The prequel takes us back a generation – to 4387 B.C.E. – to tell the story of Marrah’s own mother, Sabalah, Daughter of Lalah, and of Marrah’s birth and the dramatic, celestial, and nearly fatal events surrounding it.

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Christopher Bernard reviews the Curran Theater’s ‘Fun Home’

photobernardfunhomereview

Alessandra Baldacchino, Pierson Salvador and Lennon Nate Hammond advertise their family’s funeral home in “Fun Home.” © Joan Marcus

 

GROWING UP GAY IN A FUNERAL HOME IN THE STICKS—REALLY!

 

Fun Home

Music by Jeanine Tesori

Book and Lyrics by Lisa Kron

Based on a graphic novel by Alison Bechdel

 

 

The Curran Theater, after a two-year makeover, reopened in January with the Tony Award–winning musical “Fun Home,” based on the controversial graphic novel of the same name by Alison Bechdel. The novel caused some controversy several years ago when it was placed on the syllabus of a public school English class and objected to by a few parents. A San Francisco audience will probably wonder what the fuss was all about.

The novel is presented as a memoir of the author’s childhood, growing up in a small town in Pennsylvania as the daughter of two school teachers. Her father’s hobby is fixing up the old family home, returning it to what he sees as its original elegance. The father also runs the family business, on the side. This happens to be a funeral home—referred to by the children with insouciant sangfroid as “fun home.”

The father has a secret; so does the daughter, which, she discovers, under macabre and tragic circumstances, is in exact parallel to her father’s. They are both gay. Later (no spoiler here, as the show lets us know early on exactly where we are headed) the father is killed in a road accident not long after his daughter tells him she is a lesbian, and there is some question whether or not his death was a suicide. The story takes a few weak stabs, none convincing, at exploring whether or not it was.

From this not always sharply focused material (there are at least three storylines that clash as often as they cohere), a musical has been made that is about what one might expect: a sometimes strained attempt to find a universal core in a sometimes distractingly bizarre complex of situations by forcing perfectly nice people to break into soaring if sometimes shapeless melodies, boisterous but sometimes unconvincing ensembles, set pieces that come out of nowhere and then return there, scenes of revelation, love and despair (and vice versa), and question-begging speeches and storylines that can only be based on fact as no fiction writer would have left us caught so inescapably in reality’s stubborn refusal to make sense.

Yet the show is more than worth a visit, if only because the situation it depicts, as messy as reality, is close to what many gays in this country have had to confront for a very long time indeed, even as homosexuality has become more accepted as a natural and valuable part of the human condition. This musical helps mark how far at least our urban culture has come over the last generation, and as a moral, if not always artistic, triumph, it is to be encouraged and its creators and performers applauded.

The daughter, Alison, is performed by three “actors.” (May I interrupt our show at this point to make a plea that we call female actors actresses once again? Calling women by masculine cognomens is, I submit, sexist; speaking personally, I disapprove of any form of sexism, including feminist sexism. Differences, I believe, should be honored and not erased, but they can only be honored if they are named.) These are Grown-up Alison, a cartoon artist who narrates the story, played persuasively by Kate Shindle; Youngest Alison, played (on the evening I saw the show) with bouncy vim by Alessandra Baldacchino; and College Girl Alison, played, in the best performance of the night, by a pitch-perfect Abby Corrigan, who looks like she walked out of an updated Archie comic with wondering eyebrows and an expression of perpetual innocent shock. These three share one of the show’s best moments, in a trio near the end that nicely captures the confusion of identities that lies at the heart of being human at the best of times.

One other performer was especially impressive, though her part is comparatively small and she is spared having to break into song. This was Karen Eilbacher, who plays Joan, revealer to the sexually uncertain Alison of her own gayness in a sweet and funny scene with Abby that is one of the show’s loveliest and most touching moments.  Eilbacher does a great deal with a cool mien and perfectly gauged body language, to say nothing of a killing Mohawk.

The weakest link in the story is the depiction of the father (played by a game Robert Petkoff), who is never explored in sufficient depth by the script; he is kept at a distance as a nerdy, controlling, self-deceiving, closeted Log Cabin Republican−type gay man who we remain maddeningly outside of; a shell without an interior, unless the over-controlled, airless, funereal tastelessness of his home (revealed in a brilliant move of stagecraft in the middle of the show) is in fact his interior. The glasses he wears are both a sign of his inability to see the world on his own, and of our inability to see him, read his face and thus the man. Keeping him hidden behind his prosthesis for most of two hours hobbles an actor’s ability to give his expressions much nuance. (The same might be said of Grownup Alison, though to less untoward effect.)

Alison’s mother is played by Susan Moniz; it is a bit of a thankless role, as the mother’s motivations for staying with Alison’s father remain as murky as the man himself is. Alison’s younger brothers are played with energy and charm by Pierson Salvador and Lennon Nate Hammond, and with Baldacchino have one of the show’s best moments: a whacky ensemble in which they act out a make-believe TV commercial for their “fun home.” Too bad I couldn’t hear all the lyrics in an otherwise well-mic’d show; the ones I could hear were some of the show’s funniest lines.

The objects of the father’s interest down the years are nicely played by Robert Hager.

The instrumentals were performed onstage by the Fun Home Orchestra; John Doing’s percussion and Philip Varricchio’s clarinet made especially memorable contributions.

_____

Christopher Bernard is co-editor of the webzine Caveat Lector. His novel Voyage to a Phantom City came out in 2016; his new book—a collection of poetry called Chien Lunatique—will be published in May.

 

Christopher Bernard: Trumplandia

The News from Trumplandia

(Adapted from the Work of Basho, John Milton, Emily Dickinson, and T. S. Eliot)

Mauled, marred, and mutilated by Christopher Bernard

 

Mr. Trumpollinax

When Mr. Trumpollinax walked across the United States

His laughter fell like a bull’s cock among the teacups.

I thought of W., now a shy figure in the manzanita,

And of H.W. in the shrubbery

Slobbering over the hottie on the swing.

In the palace of Mrs. Flaccus at Professor Ernest Doolittle’s

He laughed like a psychotic poodle.

His laughter was quite subversive, though renowned,

Like the old man’s demented tittering

Hidden under the dying coral reefs.

I looked for the head of Mr. Trumpollinax rolling under his limo,

Or grinning on a screen

Of a topless bar in Dubuque or Sioux Falls,

With tar sand in its hair.

I heard the beat of a satyr’s goat-like hooves over Manhattan cement

As his acrid insults devoured the afternoon.

“He is a charming man, when you get to know him.” “But after all what did he mean?”

“His pointed ears, his half-eaten eyes . . . he must be unbalanced.”

“There was something he said I might have challenged—

A thousand things, but now—”

Of the dowager Mrs. Flaccus and Professor and Mrs. Doolittle

I remember only this: a piece of toast.

And of Mr. Trumpollinax his smiling, munching teeth.

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