Welcome, readers, to August’s second issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.
First, a few announcements.
One of our regular contributors, Jaylan Salah, whom I’ve known for nearly 20 years, is an Egyptian national and a feminist film critic in the Arab world. She’s spoken virtually on panels at professional conferences and has a few books of poetry published.
Her father, who has been a consistent and encouraging presence in her life, has heart disease and needs a lifesaving bypass surgery. In Egypt people can get this done for $3,500 USD even without insurance, so she’s put together a GoFundMe to raise this. She’d appreciate any contributions or people resharing the fundraiser.
Fundraiser by Shadan Larki : Help My Father Receive Life-Saving Open-Heart Surgery
Also, Dr. Natalie Bisso announces a call for written and visual art for an international competition.
Now for this month’s issue: Where Things Touch.
The pieces gathered here live at the places where one thing meets another: technology and humanity, memory and the present, language and silence, homeland and identity, grief and renewal, love and loss. Their subjects are remarkably varied, yet together they suggest a simple idea: we understand the world most deeply at its points of contact.
That tension begins with artificial intelligence. Ochilova Zarnigor Zuhriddin qizi highlights the opportunities AI technologies can make possible, while Shodmonova Madina Bekzod qizi urges us toward its selective and wise use. Dr. Jernail S. Anand similarly encourages humanity to regard artificial intelligence as a tool rather than a replacement for human beings. Bahtiyar Hidayet expresses a similar idea regarding how people viewed the invention of the automobile, and Sotvoldiyeva Nargizaxon Abdurasulovna discusses user experience and data security for digital government services. Their perspectives establish an important balance for a technologically transformed age: innovation matters, but so does judgment. The question is not simply what machines can do, but what humans should choose to do with them.
That question of choice extends into language itself. Joshua Martin’s review of Neil Flory’s locust blindfold stompchant rain presents poetry as raw material—language shattered, recombined, musicalized, and made strange so that readers can no longer consume it passively. Grant Guy’s concrete poems discover the expressive force of what language leaves unsaid, while Ivan Pozzoni asks whether, in our modern world, speech still means what we think it means: are we actually communicating, and are we actually listening? Young-eun Kang offers a possible answer from another direction, suggesting that love can cross a communication gap that words alone cannot. Musharraf Hussain and Thi Lan Anh Tran’s Love Amidst Calculations makes the same case against the tyranny of measurement and productivity, finding connection, tenderness, and presence in the margins of quantified life.
The writers repeatedly demonstrate that when words fail, other forms of expression remain. Noah Berlatsky approaches Whitman’s poetry with wit, while Sunday David Kokoette reflects on the historical power of the pen and the great documents that have shaped civilization. Raida Jarjes, writing about Oscar Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose, reminds us that reading itself changes with experience: what once seemed one thing may, years later, reveal another depth. Mark Young similarly explores reframing and the transfiguration of perspective as routes toward new understanding. In these works, interpretation becomes a form of transformation. We do not merely read the world; we continually reread it.
Memory is another place where past and present touch. Patrick Sweeney’s monostich poems place childhood memories beside the present, allowing the cosmic and the mundane to meet. Brian Barbeito’s recollections of a grandmother’s raspberries and crocheted objects suggest that love, once given, never entirely disappears. David Douglas quietly asks whether, if we could relive the best time of our lives, we would still belong there. Neidy Avila Ramirez explores the loneliness of outgrowing the circumstances that formed us. Together, these pieces recognize that nostalgia is not simply a desire to return. Sometimes growing means discovering that the place that made us is no longer the place where we can remain.
Other writers confront the darker dimensions of being human. J.J. Campbell’s poetry finds suburban suffocation, mortality, regret, and dark humor in bleak circumstances. John Grey, using taxidermy as a strange mirror, considers impermanence, insignificance, and the quiet absurdity of existence. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s speaker feels himself polluted and unworthy, imagining death as a cleansing of the world. Srijani Dutta writes from uncertainty, pain, rejection, self-doubt, and change while continuing to search for freedom, creativity, and meaning. Shah Jehan Ashrafi gives form to a different kind of struggle: the fragile yet unbroken person, quiet yet volcanic, carrying immense weight while still emitting light. Photini Karamouzis Chalkias enters the digital age’s emotional terrain, portraying longing, toxic connection, and the loss of self in love. Türkan Ergör speaks to the ache of knowing where you belong but being separated from it and the quiet transformation that happens when you’ve glimpsed something (the rose) that redefines what “home” even means.
Yet despair is rarely allowed the final word. Stephen Jarrell Williams writes toward surrender—not defeat, but the willingness to be opened by nature and creative power so completely that one might create the words even one other person needs. Kushi Nanayakkara finds something beautiful or vital persisting amid decay and loss. Abigail George portrays addiction as a thief of family love and peace of mind, but also records the small acts—knitting, making coffee, praying—that can hold a person together when everything else is collapsing. Oruj Dadashi Elman expresses his lofty hopes and visions for his poetry as Graciela Noemi Villaverde offers up a powerful and beautiful rendering of human dignity, poetic, philosophical, and deeply resonant. Mohammed Al-Qaddafi Masoud, translated by Dr. Salwa Goda, speaks to stripping away pretense and getting to the elemental truths of reality, as Hong Ngoc Chau points out how some aspects of life ultimately cannot be analyzed, but simply felt. Ananya S. Guha enters the disorienting limbo of insomnia, where even the familiar rhythms of night seem to have vanished. This may seem depressing, but it is also deeply human, and sometimes witnessing and journaling through one’s challenging experiences allows us to survive. Shannon Scoates asserts that her soft heart is an inextricable part of her personality and finds the strength to hold onto it. Priyanka Neogi expresses an artistic commitment to strictness, not as harshness, but as focus and discipline. Sumana Bhattacharjee chooses kindness and self-respect on her own terms, rather than worrying what a whole world of very different people will think of her. These works understand survival not as triumphal certainty but as the stubborn continuation of meaning.
Love, accordingly, appears in many forms. Mesfakus Salahin portrays it as simultaneously passionate and creative like the sun and contemplative and mysterious like the moon. Jacques Fleury’s deeply personal letter to Faith addresses both a person and the quality of faith itself, finding gratitude, vulnerability, and emotional maturity in the ruins of collapsed piety—and discovering there a renewed belief in humanity, freedom, and collective peace. Driss Boukili El Hassani makes homeland itself a person: the beloved becomes the country. Sayani Mukherjee creates a love that brings together nature, city, sorrow, and joy, making something both eternal and earthly. Qahramonova Zaxro honors her beloved father with a tender poem in verse. Mahbub Alam’s piece suggests that true connection requires disorientation, a willingness to be lost alongside another. Dianne Reeves Angel’s poetic speakers move from guarded performance to exhausted, truthful surrender, when there’s nothing left to do but be seen. Milena Pčinjski speaks to perfect synchronicity and oneness between two people. Milka J. Šolaja illustrates a relationship so supportive that both partners are free to be their authentic selves. And Bill Tope’s short story reminds us that friendship is not necessarily created by proximity or shared interests but by the deliberate choice to remain present. Kozimjonova Saidakhon Alisher qizi highlights the need to balance being present for one’s social media followers with being here for one’s actual life.
Love also encounters history, culture, and identity. Nigora Tursunboyeva’s essay celebrates Uzbek poetess Zulfiya, whose exploration of women’s inner lives accompanied her nation’s modernization and whose literary legacy remains powerful. Elmaya Jabbarova honors the legacy of Azerbaijani poetess Burla Khatun. Jumayeva Gulasal argues that Uzbekistan’s traditional values for women and girls can coexist with modern education and participation in the job market. Farangiz Rakhmonova celebrates the many different entrepreneurial ventures of young Uzbek women. Malika Rustaqizi Arziqulova discusses ways to turn one’s goals into reality through personal growth and learning as Anvarova Xursanoy Azizbek qizi encourages students to gain work and life experience while still in college. Yuldasheva Xadichaxon Bahodir qizi highlights the role of her university education in helping her achieve her dreams. Boqieva Nazira encourages us to make the most of whatever circumstances we encounter through resilience and responsibility. Abdukarimova Qadriya emphasizes cultural literacy as an essential component of education in English as a foreign language, while Matniyazova Gulizebo Adilbek qizi describes proficiency in English as a lifelong goal. Oygul Shermamatova connects the historical greatness of Uzbek culture with the dignified and successful futures available to its young people. Rajabova Ruxshona Ibrahim kizi outlines the humanistic creativity, insight, and artistic genius of the European Renaissance. Danijela Ćuk dreams of peace in the world and in each family’s home.
That cultural pride appears vividly throughout the collection. Rayhona Hasanova celebrates the beauty, purity, and strength of her Uzbek homeland. Maxmatqulova Amira Alisherovna celebrates its natural and cultural beauty. Amina Sunnatullayeva honors its long history, crafts, moral values, and art. Elmurodova Charos Sunnat qizi remembers the legacy of Central Asian statesman and warrior Amir Temur. Mirzayeva Madina Asliddinovna provides a detailed overview of several Uzbek cities’ history and main attractions. Sharifova Saidaxon turns heritage into a question, asking whether we are living up to the sacrifices and legacy of our ancestors. In these works, history is not a museum behind glass. It is an inheritance that demands a response.
The Serbian critics’ defense and celebration of writer Maja Herman Sekulić broadens that principle beyond any single homeland. Their cultural commentary asserts the universal value of literature beyond nationality or ideology. Literature can begin in a particular country, language, memory, or political moment and still travel beyond those borders. It is at once rooted and migratory. In a similar vein, Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s preface to Lan Xin’s upcoming book Phoenix Nirvana elevates the book from a self-help or women’s growth title into a spiritual-cultural event, carrying the weight of cross-cultural healing, female empowerment, and universal love.
The natural world provides another meeting place. Jerrice Baptiste’s summer poems and paintings depict plant and animal life continuing relentlessly even amid human activity. Marjorie Thelen’s story of caring for a magpie discovers trust, wildness, friendship, and the extraordinary grace of being chosen by a creature that could simply have flown away. Nidia Amelia Garcia describes a canoe on the river with the language of love and communion. Maja Milojkovic does something similar with gentle raindrops and roses. Christina Chin’s haiga and accompanying art preserve a gentle summer moment. Chidimma Ewelukwa gives voice to children and to the earth itself while counting the lingering costs of war.
Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s evocative short story turns to the effects of plastic waste on sea creatures, while her musical poetry reminds us that ecological concern can itself become art. Timothee Bordenave approaches the same environmental crisis through chemistry, arguing for a circular economy in which plastic waste can be transformed into high-performance, metal-replacing materials—an approach that is both economically viable and environmentally beneficial. Otamurodova Asalbonu Qodir qizi also discusses ways to reduce, reuse, recycle, and replace plastics. O’ktamova Sabrina Mahmud qizi addresses soil degradation in Uzbekistan’s Kashkadarya region and bioremediation through mulch.
Science and medicine enter this conversation not as opposites to art but as other ways of caring for life. Kamolabonu Rasuljon qizi Inomova outlines modern therapeutic approaches to epilepsy treatment, while Jurayeva Muxtasar Ilyosovna discusses the prevention of viral respiratory infections. Feruza Boymurodova Jumanazar qizi considers digital monitoring of the efficacy of biological treatment for psoriasis. Their practical concerns remind us that knowledge has consequences beyond the page: understanding can protect bodies just as literature can illuminate minds.
The collection also repeatedly asks what happens when power is abused or suffering is ignored. Duane Vorhees examines power and the disturbing question of who gets to play God over the creations of others. Ri Hossain’s poem becomes a rebellion against polite silence, challenging the educated, comfortable observer who can look away from suffering and retreat into romance or consumerism. At the same time, the poem stages an internal conflict between the thinker who desires order and the poet drawn toward the messy, erotic, and unknown. Chidimma Ewelukwa’s children and earth, still carrying the costs of war, make that silence even harder to maintain.
Ethical responsibility appears on a smaller, more intimate scale as well. Kozimjonova Saidaxon Alisher qizi’s story demonstrates the power of humble repentance: genuine amends begin not with excuses for the person who caused harm but with concern for the person harmed. Duane Vorhees’s questions about power and Kozimjonova Saidaxon’s lesson about accountability ultimately meet at the same point: what we do to others matters.
The arts themselves become evidence of human resilience. Alex S. Johnson’s profile of Morgan Riley, frontwoman of Blackwater Drowning, presents a band demonstrating that heaviness can be tender, genres can remain fluid, and brutal music can carry deeply human messages. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s musical poetry, Jerrice Baptiste’s combination of poems and paintings, and Grant Guy’s concrete forms similarly refuse to separate artistic beauty from difficult realities. Form becomes part of meaning.
Even technology, in the end, belongs to this larger human conversation. AI can generate, calculate, accelerate, and transform, but the works gathered here repeatedly insist upon qualities that cannot be reduced to efficiency: vulnerability, memory, cultural inheritance, compassion, repentance, attention, imagination, and love. The challenge is not to reject new tools but to remain human while using them.
From Ochilova Zarnigor Zuhriddin qizi’s excitement about the technical possibilities represented by artificial intelligence to Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s insistence that AI is a tool to work alongside, not instead of, our creativity; from J.J. Campbell’s bleak humor to Stephen Jarrell Williams’ creative surrender; from Patrick Sweeney’s childhood memories to David Douglas’ question about belonging to the past; from Rayhona Hasanova, Maxmatqulova Amira Alisherovna, Amina Sunnatullayeva, and Oygul Shermamatova’s celebration of Uzbekistan to Driss Boukili El Hassani’s discovery of homeland in a beloved; from Nigora Tursunboyeva’s remembrance of Uzbek poetess Zulfiya to the Serbian critics’ defense of the literary legacy and impact of Maja Herman Sekulić; from Timothee Bordenave’s fresh idea for a closed-loop system recycling plastics into new materials and Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s poignant tale of sea creatures endangered by humanity’s plastic pollution; from Ri Hossain’s poetic rebellion against polite silence and refusal to disappear into comfort and consumerism to Musharraf Hussain and Thi Lan Anh Tran’s rebellion against measuring the worth of our lives purely by our productivity—the pieces continually cross boundaries that might otherwise seem fixed.
That is their deepest kinship. They remind us that nothing meaningful exists entirely alone. Memory touches identity. Language touches silence. Science touches ethics. Technology touches responsibility. Love touches grief. Homeland touches history. Nature touches culture. Art touches survival.
And somewhere in all those crossings, something unexpected happens: things begin to speak to one another.
The result is not a collection of answers so much as a collection of encounters. Its guiding principle might therefore be stated in two words: Where Things Touch. It is at those points of contact—between past and future, human and machine, self and other, destruction and renewal—that understanding begins.