It’s easy to feel extra dazed, excited, and overwhelmed during the holiday season. Whether you’re alone, or with family or friends, keep your creative spirit bright!
This issue is packed with interesting stories and poetry. Check out the unique poetry from returning contributors Tatjana Debeljacki and Sam Burks.
Patsy Ledbetter also writes from a personal standpoint, but with a different writing style. She shares two stories this month: A Unique Name and An October Weekend. Additional stories come from Sam Burks and Laura O’Brien.
As always, we are also pleased to feature Leena Prasad’s ongoing monthly column: Whose Brain Is It?Presented as a mystery with fictional characters and clues, this is a monthly column with a journalist’s perspective on brain research.
We have many reviews this month. This is a great time of the year to put a new book on your wish list or catch a show at your local theater.
Art Review:
Christopher Bernard on Masters of Venice at the De Young Museum in San Francisco, California
Lastly, be sure to check out Rea Rivera’s article on World Traveler and Author, Francis Tapon. Tapon has an intriguing story of how he evolved from being an academic achiever and successful businessman to becoming a cultural risk-taker.
We wish everyone a wonderful holiday season full of warmth and celebration! For those of you who do buy gifts, we encourage you to support your local charities, used book stores, and artists at holiday craft fairs. Happy holidays!
KORENJE VIDOVITO, NADIRE NEDOKUČIVE MUDROSTI. TAKO POČINJE, VARLJIV JE POGLED NA VREME. ČAS JE DA UGLEDAMO POTONULE .RAZUMEŠ LI ŠTO ČITAŠ? DONOSIŠ ONO MALO STO ŽELIŠ. TVOJ LIK JOŠ RASTE I PLAČE. PRIBLIŽAVANJE I UDALJAVANJE ,SILNA SLABOST. SVET ŠTO SE PRUŽA I NE PRIPADA NIKOME ,DAJ NEŠTO OD SEBE ŠTO DAJE SMISAO IZ NITI VOLJE. POGLEDAJ DRUGIM POGLEDIMA NA SVETLOST. ZLO JE OPASNA ZARAZNA BOLEST, ISELI SE IZ ZLA ,ONO PRODUŽAVA VEK.»GORD-A-DAN» SUZE REKE SAD ŽUBORE,PAS SVILI, NEMA TE. OTRGNI SE LJUBIM TE! I NEČUJNO KROZ OTVORENA VRATA DOĐI NA GOZBU OČUVANIH OSEĆANJA ,SNOVIĐENJA NA RADOST! DOSTOJAN DAR , GLADNU ŽUDNJU U POSTELJI OD PERJA , SVILA BELA KO SNEG ,SNAGOM TIŠINE. CVETOVI MASLAČKA ,PLEŠIMO IZ DALEKA POGLEDIMA, TELIMA, DODIRUJ MO SE SAMO DLANOVIM A.
[English Translation]
GORD-A-DAN
THE ROOTS ARE CLAIRVOYANT, GRASPING UNTOUHABLE WISDOM. THAT IS THE WAY IT STARTS, THE SIGN OF TIMES IS DECEIVING. IT IS THE TIME TO SEE THE DROWNED. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE READING? YOU ARE BRINGING AS SMALL AMOUNTS AS YOU LIKE TO. YOUR IMAGE IS STILL GROWING AND CRYING. COMING CLOSER AND GOING AWAY, STRONG WEAKNESS. THE WORLD THAT IS SPREADING BUT DOES NOT BELONG TO ANYONE, GIVE SOMETHING FROM YOURSELF THAT COULD BRING SENSE FROM THE THREAD OF WILL. TRY LOOKING WITH DIFFERENT EYES TO THE LIGHT. EVIL ISDANGEROUS, CONTAGEOUS ILLNESS, MOVE OUT OF THAT EVIL, IT MAKES THE ENTURY LONGER.”GORD-A-DAN” THE TEAR RIVERS ARE NOW MURMURING, THE DOG IS WAILING, YOU ARE GONE. BEAK LOOSE I BEG YOU! AND SLENTLY, THROUGH THE OPEN DOOR, COME TO ATTEND THE FEAST OF PRESERVED EMOTIONS, DAYDREAMS, THE HAPPY MOMENTS! DECENT GIFT, HUNGRY CRAVING IN THE BUNK OF FETAHRES, SILK AS PURE AS THE SNOW, WITH THE FORCE OF SILENCE. FLOWERS OF DANDELLIONS LET’S DANCE FROM AFAR WITH OUR LOOKS, WITH OUR BODIES, LET’S TOUCH WIT PALMS ONLY.
With white noise reflecting
my eyes
I’ve split myself from the entity-
the negative entity-
To join the half grins
on this side
of the one-way window.
A double reflection
consuming
the blankness
of space.
And once surrounded
by endless squawking
madness
desperate in it’s own
special way
I find a nitch at last
in solitude,
an unfathomable multitude
of peace.
With the sea
swelling
and falling
all five, six
maybe even seven
senses
consume me
in peace.
I am sitting across from my 96-year-old Grandmother Alice on my Uncle John’s white, screened-in back porch in Douglasville, Georgia. The smell of casseroles lingered onto the porch—green bean casserole, squash casserole, broccoli and cheese casserole—everyone brought casseroles to my family get-togethers. My Grandmother Alice sat, sipping on her tea and melted ice, holding her cup with her white napkin fixed around the cup like paper-mache’. Her old hand with thick fingers wrapped around the cup like deformed tree vines. The fans on the porch cooled the air, but we both were sweating in the humidity.
Even at 96, my grandmother still had thick, natural black hair—all of her girlfriends from church swore on their bibles that she dyed her hair, but she didn’t, “Good genes,” she’d giggle and run her hand through her dark, thick mane. Today she was wearing a striped cotton shirt that flowed loosely over her wrinkled body; her skin was a healthy olive covered by a light makeup that smelt like baby powder, soap, and a floral perfume. She had a large, Greek nose that held her thin, silver rimmed glasses to bright blue eyes.
We were sitting in flowered-cushioned wicker chairs, hiding out from our loud family inside eating. She was telling me the one of the last stories I’d hear from her after today.
It was the story from the Great Depression about when her mother let her have a party in the sitting room of her house back in Tallapoosa, Georgia and she “cut a rug in the carpet” with her brother’s friends. It was one of her favorite stories to tell. She still lived in that white house in Tallapoosa, the same house her parents raised her in. The same old house with pink antique furniture and an oak wood curio she kept filled with different ringing bells. She couldn’t remember any recent stories to tell me, but she could tell me every story from when she was born until she buried her late husband, Bud.
“Mother let us push the furniture back against the walls,” she said as she wiped her brow with her napkin and leaned in close to tell me the story with a smirk, grabbing my hand as if we were school girls, as if it were a secret her mother let her do such an inappropriate thing.
“Brother would get mad if I tried to dance with his friends,” and said, sitting back and smiling to herself, taking another bite of her squash casserole, “but some of those boys were mighty cute and would even walk me home from school.” She winked at me after she said the part about the boys.
She had just taken another bite and started looking curiously at me, her eyes still smiling but her eyeballs wandered from my thin eyebrows to my small hands as she chewed.
“Now who are you again?” she asked me, interrupting the story right before the part where her daddy came in and told everyone it was getting late. She couldn’t remember me, or my three siblings, but her favorite grandson, Jay, my daddy, she could remember.
“I’m Jay’s daughter, Lauren,” I told her, saying “Jay” real southern sounding, stretching out the “A” sound so she could understand me. She’d always scold me if I spoke fast “like a yankee.”
“Jay?” she asked, laughing hysterically back in her chair, covering her full mouth with her napkin.
“Yes, you remember Jay, right?” I smiled, knowing she did. They talked on the phone every night. If he didn’t call her on schedule, she’d call our house just to hang up on him when he answered for not calling her when she wanted.
“Oh yes! Of course I know who Jay is! It’s just funny you said you’re his daughter!”
“And why is that?” I smiled, shaking my head at her for being silly.
“Because Jay is only twenty years old! He doesn’t have kids!” she said so assured, but still tickled at the idea that he had an eighteen-year-old daughter like me.
“I know you’re kin though,” she said smiling, “you look like Jay though,” she said, “You’re definitely an Owen.”
“So I’ve heard,” I laughed back, smiling at her face that didn’t look worried at all; she couldn’t remember who I was, but she knew who I wasn’t—her 46 year old grandson’s daughter.
This was the first time I was a stranger to Grandmother Alice, but she was the type of person who would talk to a stranger in the supermarket about everything in their buggy, so she wasn’t worried about it.
“Now some of these people here, they’re not kin,” she said, scoping the yard where my cousins were tossing around a ball.
“Who is that young man?” she asked, pointing to my Aunt Sarah’s husband Chris. “He’s isn’t kin, I can tell.”
“That’s Sarah Kay’s husband, Chris” I answered, stretching the “A” sound in Kay again to keep from “soundin’ like a yankee.” His small eyes and pale skin gave him away. Plus, he was a yankee—he was from Florida. Grandmother Alice could spot Yankees better than Confederate General Robert E. Lee.
She just nodded at herself for getting it right and kept looking at him and the others in the yard.
“I can recognize our kin,” she said grabbing my hand, “because we’re the good lookin’ ones!” she winked at me, then sat back satisfied with the crowd in the yard and started to tell me another story about when she was a young girl.
————————————————————————————————————————————-
Lauren Gann is a recent graduate of Georgia Southern University, with a B.A. in Political Science and a Minor in Writing and Linguistics. You can reach Gann at lagann6@gmail.com.
Every year our family attends a Thanksgiving Conference at Mt. Hermon in the beautiful Santa Cruz Mountains surrounded by giant Redwood Trees. Once, about three years ago, we picked up our welcome packet and there was a name tag in there that said, “Unisha Ledbetter.” I laughed as I realized they had gotten confused and put the wrong name tag in our bag. I wore it for fun and my family enjoyed the humor. When I got to camp, I found the real Unisha and got to know her a bit. They gave me a correct name badge. Sometimes we wonder if God is really aware of exactly who we are and the difficulties we are going through. We can be sure that He knows it all and is working it together for His glory and our good…..even the heart-wrenching pain we go through. He knows us by name. We can never escape from His presence or His love. He is so great that He knows what each and every one of us is thinking at the same time. I find that astounding.
I praise Him that I can trust Him completely, even when I don’t understand, distant or afraid. He can use each one of us in times when others don’t notice us or don’t remember our names. He always does, and continues to assure us in many ways each day that He stays close to us. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for so many things. I am blessed with an amazing family, friends and church. But even more than that, I know that He is with me at all times and His power and presence in my life are very real. He allows me to serve Him in amazing ways. I am thankful for His forgiveness, grace and glory in my life. I am especially thankful that I have the hope of one day seeing Him face to face. May God bless you all abundantly at this Holiday Season.
I was feeling kind of bummed because everyone I knew was going away for the weekend. Actually there were two trips that I could not attend. The teacher’s convention would be held on Thursday and Friday and then my church women’s retreat would be held on Friday to Sunday. I was not able to go to either outing as I had some previous commitments.
Next, I found out the Blue Angels would be in San Francisco and I desperately wanted to go. Something told me that would not be happening either. I prayed, “Lord, this time I seriously do not want to whine about any of this. You love me and that is always enough. I have a wonderful family and friends that I am grateful for, so please reveal to me exactly what you have in mind this weekend. My only requirement is that it brings glory to you.” I have three other very dear friends who were also busy for the weekend, so now I will tell you what ended up happening.
I had a little pity party on Thursday, but quickly got over it. We had rain on Wednesday and Thursday and knowing how much we needed it and how much my husband loves it, I was grateful for that. On Friday, I woke up and the sun was shining. I decided to take a solo hike in Lake Chabot and after about an hour of walking, I met a lady about my age. I asked her how far she was going and she said when all was said and done, it would be about four miles. I asked her if I could tag along and we had a wonderful conversation, finding out that her father has been in the music world all is life, as has my husband. I was able to share a little bit about our church and our music ministry with her and for that I was grateful. I also went with a friend on Saturday to Capitola and it was the most beautiful day anyone could imagine. So blue and lovely. We had a wonderful time. Sunday, for the first time in ten years, I got to sing on the worship team with about twenty choir members who had stayed in town. We had sung before, but we actually got to come on at the end and sing some more with the worship team and that was nice. After that, I went to children’s church and participated in a very funny skit that cheered my soul. I then went up to my Sunday School class what has hosted only the men that day because the women were all at a retreat and took the extra donuts, cake and fruit to a group home where I know some of the blind residents. They loved it and I loved sharing it with them. That afternoon, I went by myself to the Greek Festival and ran into a lady from my Tuesday night orchestra. I was able to invite her to a concert our choir and orchestra will be having in a few weeks.
Thanks Lord for your plans. Nothing and no one in this life is perfect, but every time I surrender to You, You work things out perfectly. My son and my husband also had a nice time of doing what they had in mind to do. The Lord is good and constantly shows me He can bring good out of everything.
Whenever I look back on those days-the days that are transpiring right now, the ones that have always been taking place, like a long and dull story that never ends-I see how little things have changed in a decade, or maybe just half a decade. Whatever. Time has never been an issue. I am always here. I always have been here. And so has she.
What tears are these that flow over the surface of rumbling cheeks? From hot smiles a flow of warm air, sterile with alcohol, sweeps over the arches of a back broken from the repetitive nature of circumstances, broken from the actions we have taken as the poster-children of directionless souls, who can see the world with no barriers in their dreams, but who cannot feel these things in the darkness, even though there is no logical distinction between dreams and the pitch black darkness.
What good does it do us to stretch our imaginations, but not our hands into the same vague darkness, the same one that we experience in dreams? What is the difference between night and day? Right and wrong? To be asleep and dreaming, and seeing with new eyes, and to be awake and dreaming and seeing with even newer eyes?
I sit here, like a permanent fixture, tormented and drunk, happy yet afraid, the self-righteousness in me dying in the wake of growth, even when the present circumstances seem to allow no more room to grow, unless I destroy this box where I have lived and have drawn out my insecurities as a sickly display of stick figure violence and sexual innuendos. I sit here, finally at peace with the notion that the world has died next to me, before I ever got a chance to feel it breathe.
And as always, she is sitting here next to me.With a smile that never breaks, even in times of horrible desperation. Her eyes reflect a natural beauty that never ceases to exist, even when her sanity disappears temporarily (as it will from time to time, like all of us will experience from time to time). This smile in her eyes, it smiles at me from across the room, from across a plane of stars that take over when the rest of reality fails us. We have the same eyes; not just the same kind of eyes, but the same exact pair of eyes. When she smiles, so do I. When I die inside, she dies with me. But she is always looking at me, and I am always looking at her, waiting for a cue, waiting forever perhaps. Whatever. Time is not an issue.
