I almost forgot I was in a foreign land, Like a black bird eagerly pecking through the dawn. The rails stretch out like a lasting hymn, The crisp wind carries the fragrance of France.
Outside the window, The vineyard, unwilling to be lonely, Stirs waves of my thoughts.
When Pierre held up the sign saying “Anna Keiko,” In that instant, I forgot the bumps and fatigue of the journey, As if ASSAT Had always been my home in a past life.
September 6, 2025
Written at ASSAT
NO2
The First Encounter
By Anna Keiko
Barefoot, he stands before the castle gate
As if awaiting a beloved’s return
Or like an eagle spreading its wings
To embrace her tenderly.
In an instant, two lost swallows
Arrive together at their spiritual home
The world changes its colors from then on
The sky full of stars resembles ripe grapes in the garden
Oh, my lover from a past life!
Look, the moon is conversing with us too
Its heart, untouched by seasons
Even in September, still wanders through summer’s currents
My friend says the art of the Louvre and Montmartre is noble,
yet street art remains a mirror of common life.
When fatigue sets in, sit down, have a coffee,
savor the ease brought by foreign culture and slow living.
NO10
Contemplation
By Anna Keiko (Shanghai, China)
How many paths must one walk to reach
that unknown polar realm?
What lies stored in the cold palace
bathed in sunlight—
flowers, or coffee,
or perhaps
a wilderness teeming with creeping insects?
06:02 November 2, 2025
Anna Keiko, a distinguished poetess and essayist from Shanghai, China, has made a profound impact on contemporary literature. A graduate of Shanghai East China University with a Bachelor’s degree in Law, she has achieved global recognition for her poetry, which has been translated into more than 30 languages and published in over 500 journals, magazines, and media outlets across 40 countries. Keiko is the founder and chief editor of the ACC Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association and serves as a Chinese representative and director of the International Cultural Foundation Ithaca. Her affiliations extend to Immagine & Poesia in Italy and the Canadian-Cuban Literary Union, reflecting her commitment to fostering cross-cultural literary exchanges.
Her poetic oeuvre spans six collections, including “Lonely in the Blood and Absurd Language”, showcasing her exploration of human emotions, environmental concerns, and existential themes. Her innovative style and evocative imagery have earned her numerous accolades, such as the 30th International Poetry Award in Italy and the World Peace Ambassador Certificate in 2024. Notably, she was the first Chinese recipient of the Cross-Cultural Exchange Medal for Significant Contribution to World Poetry, awarded in the United States in 2023. Her works, including “Octopus Bones” and other acclaimed poems, have resonated with readers worldwide, garnering invitations to prominent international poetry festivals and conferences. Her dedication to the arts extends beyond poetry, encompassing prose, essays, lyrics, and drama, underscoring her versatility as a writer. Nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020, Anna Keiko continues to break barriers, bringing Chinese literature to the global stage.
Biography
Anna Keiko, originally named Wang Xianglian, was born in Wuyuan County, Jiangxi Province, China. She is an internationally renowned poet, painter, and editor, currently residing in Shanghai. In 2016, she founded the ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Society and its international online magazine, serving as President and Editor-in-Chief. Additionally, she holds the positions of China Representative for the Spanish Cultural Foundation ITHACA, partner for Italy’s “Art and Poetry” association and the US Cross-Cultural Communication Association, and Council Member of the China Youth Literature Association. As a proactive promoter of world poetry, Annakeiko received the UNESCO-certified “International Ambassador for Peace Outstanding Contribution Award”. Her poems have been translated into over 30 languages, with more than two thousand works published in over 500 newspapers and magazines across more than 60 countries globally. To date, she has published 11 personal poetry collections, one translated work, and has edited or contributed to dozens of poetry anthologies.
Anna Keiko has been frequently invited to significant international poetry festivals and has received over 30 international poetry awards, including the Italian 30th “Seppia” International Literary Gold Prize and the “Poetry Excellence Outstanding Contribution Award” from the US Cross-Cultural Association – the first time this award was given to a Chinese poet since the association’s establishment over 50 years ago. Domestically, she has received the Shanghai Citizen’s Poetry Festival Award three times and was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 2020. In 2022, Anna Keiko was interviewed by the renowned Chinese military poet Senior Colonel Xue Xixiang. The related content was fully reported by the US’s largest Asian news media, “Southern US News”, and published across two full pages in the overseas edition of the “People’s Daily”, generating widespread social influence. That same year, Shanghai “Xinmin Evening News” reporter Zhou Nan produced a featured interview with her. The preface poem from her collection “The Language of Deep Sleep” was broadcast on Shanghai People’s Broadcasting Station, and she was interviewed by the station’s host, Han Jiang.
In February 2025, she was interviewed by the renowned Italian poet, journalist, and translator Angely Kosta, with the article published in several countries. In September 2025, she was interviewed for the art program of Paris TOPTv. Also in 2025, her paintings were exhibited at the Paris Art Fair, Galerie La Fabrique, and several other art galleries and spaces. In August 2024, Annakeiko co-edited with Chilean international editor Luis Cruz-Villalobos “Contemporary Chinese Poetry in English – Dragon Songs”, published in Chile. The anthology features works by 30 outstanding poets from mainland China, sold globally via Amazon, promoting the globalization of Chinese poetry. That same year, the ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Society she founded jointly organized the “International New Year Poetry Gathering” with the North American Poetry Association, attracting poets from 26 countries.
The ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Society established by Anna Keiko has repeatedly co-organized international poetry events with the US North American Poetry Association and has successfully held numerous poetry recitation events both online and offline in China. Furthermore, the Shanghai Huifeng International Literature WeChat public account and several websites she oversees have published collections from poets in over 100 countries. She has also published a significant number of poetry critiques, essays, and dramatic works.
The influence of the translator’s personality on translation quality
Author: Toshpo‘latova Aziza
University: Termiz davlat universiteti
Field: Tarjima nazariyasi va amaliyoti
Annotatsiya: Ushbu maqolada tarjima jarayonida tarjimon shaxsining tarjima sifatiga ko‘rsatadigan ta’siri chuqur tahlil qilinadi. Tarjimonning kasbiy mahorati, shaxsiy fazilatlari, madaniy saviyasi hamda til kompetensiyasi tarjima natijasining aniqligi, uslubiy yaxlitligi va madaniy mosligini belgilovchi asosiy omillar sifatida o‘rganiladi. Shuningdek, tarjimonning ijodiy yondashuvi, emotsional intellekti, madaniyatlararo tafakkuri va mas’uliyat hissi tarjima jarayonida qanday rol o‘ynashi ilmiy jihatdan asoslab beriladi.Kalit so‘zlar: tarjima sifati, tarjimon shaxsi, madaniy kompetensiya, ijodkorlik, tarjima jarayoni, til tafakkuri
Annotation :This article provides an in-depth analysis of the influence of the translator’s personality on translation quality. The translator’s professional skills, personal qualities, cultural background, and language competence are explored as key factors that determine the accuracy, stylistic integrity, and cultural relevance of the translated text. The article also explains scientifically the role of the translator’s creative approach, emotional intelligence, intercultural thinking, and sense of responsibility in the translation process.
Keywords: translation quality, translator’s personality, cultural competence, creativity, translation process, linguistic thinking.Аннотация :В данной статье подробно анализируется влияние личности переводчика на качество перевода. Профессиональное мастерство переводчика, его личные качества, культурный уровень и языковая компетенция рассматриваются как ключевые факторы, определяющие точность переведенного текста, стилевую целостность и культурную адекватность. Также научно обосновано, какую роль играют творческий подход переводчика, его эмоциональный интеллект, межкультурное мышление и чувство ответственности в процессе перевода.Ключевые слова: качество перевода, личность переводчика, культурная компетенция, креативность, процесс перевода, языковое мышление.
Introduction
Translation has played a special role in the history of humanity as a means of intercultural communication and exchange of ideas. In every period, translation has served not only as the transfer of words, but also as the transmission of ideas, values, and cultural meanings. Therefore, translation quality cannot be limited to grammatical accuracy or lexical precision alone. The translator is a bridge between two languages and two cultures. He/she must not only possess linguistic knowledge, but also broad thinking, cultural sensitivity, empathy, analytical ability, and creativity. For this reason, modern translation studies recognize the personality of the translator as a decisive factor in translation quality.
Many translation theorists (Komissarov, Nida, Newmark, Baker, etc.) have analyzed the role, responsibility, and personal approach of the translator. According to them, the success of translation is directly related not only to the translator’s knowledge, but also to his/her worldview and ethical responsibility.
Methodology
This research is based on the following scientific approaches: Descriptive method – the relationship between the translator’s personality and translation quality was described based on scientific sources. Comparative analysis – the differences between various translation schools (Russian, English, and Uzbek translation studies) were clarified. Empirical observation – translation classes involving teachers and students were analyzed, and the individual characteristics of the translator were observed. Content analysis – features of translator’s style in literary and academic translations were studied through examples. Scientific literature, articles and practical translation texts (literary works, articles, academic texts) were used as research sources.
Results Analysis revealed the following main results: Translation quality is closely connected with the translator’s personal qualities. The translator’s patience, sense of responsibility, wide thinking, and artistic taste have a significant influence on the translation process. Perfect linguistic knowledge is not enough. A translator must understand not only grammar, but also metaphors, idioms, and cultural codes of the language. Cultural competence is the key to successful translation. In cases of cultural differences, the translator’s cultural sensitivity prevents errors and makes translation more natural.
Creativity plays an important role in translation. To recreate the tone and spirit of each text, the translator applies creative elements. Translators’ ethical position and responsibility matter. The translator must remain faithful to the text and convey the author’s message without distortion, adhering to professional honesty and objectivity.
Discussion The findings show that the role of the translator’s personality is one of the most important factors determining translation quality. As classical translation scholar Yu. N. Komissarov (1990) noted, “a translator is not only a transformer of language, but a creator of meaning. ”E. A. Nida (1964) suggested evaluating translation through “dynamic equivalence,” meaning that the translated text should produce the same effect on the target reader as the original did on the source reader. For this, the translator’s ability to perceive emotions, culture and context is crucial.
According to P. Newmark (1988), translation is not only related to language, but also to thinking. The translator creates a new semantic space between languages. This requires creativity, intuition, and analytical thinking. In Uzbek translation studies, the issue of translator personality has also received attention. Scholars such as O. Sharafiddinov, N. Komilov, and A. Obidjon have defined translation as a creative process and pointed out that the translator’s spiritual richness and artistic taste determine the quality of translation.
In today’s globalization, translation is not only transferring a text into another language, but also adapting a whole cultural code into another culture. In this process, the translator’s unique worldview, individual perception and personal experience are essential elements. Because each person interprets the world differently — therefore translation is also influenced by personal interpretation.
Furthermore, modern translation studies include the concept of the “translator’s visibility and invisibility” (Lawrence Venuti). Sometimes the translator’s voice, stylistic sensitivity, and personal decisions may make the translation more natural, lively, and relevant to contemporary context.
Conclusion Based on the above analysis, the following conclusions can be drawn: The core factor of translation quality is the translator’s personality, cultural worldview, and professional competence. To improve translation quality, the following qualities must be developed in translators: perfect linguistic and cultural knowledge creative and analytical thinking professional responsibility and ethical position communicative and emotional intelligence
In training translators, not only linguistic knowledge, but also cultural, psychological and creative skills should be emphasized. Considering the human factor in translation is the key to high-quality translation. In general, in modern translation practice, the translator’s inner world, cultural capital, and emotional intelligence are becoming central. Even in the era of advanced technologies, AI translation and automated systems, human creativity and contextual sensitivity still remain superior to artificial intelligence.
Therefore, in translator training systems today, the following components should be considered strategic priorities: psychological preparation, development of cultural thinking, expansion of creative thinking, strengthening ethical responsibility.
Thus, at the heart of translation quality lies not linguistic knowledge alone, but the translator’s personality — his/her worldview, experience, knowledge, and cultural sensitivity. This requires considering the translator not as a simple “language mediator,” but as a “cultural diplomat.”
Recommendations: Organizing special trainings on intercultural communication and ethical responsibility for translators. Introducing the course “Translator Psychology” in translation departments. Preserving the role of human creativity when using artificial intelligence tools in translation. Establishing a mentor–apprentice system for young translators.
ReferencesKomissarov, Yu. N. (1990). O perevode i perevodchike. Moscow: Nauka.Nida, E. A. (1964). Toward a Science of Translating. Leiden: Brill.Newmark, P. (1988). A Textbook of Translation. London: Prentice Hall.Baker, M. (2011). In Other Words: A Coursebook on Translation. London: Routledge.Larson, M. L. (1998). Meaning-Based Translation: A Guide to Cross-Language Equivalence. Lanham: University Press of America.Catford, J. C. (1965). A Linguistic Theory of Translation. London: Oxford University Press.Sharafiddinov, O. (2003). Tarjima san’ati. Tashkent: Fan.Komilov, N. (2015). Til va tafakkur uyg‘unligi. Tashkent: Yangi asr avlodi.
The Role of Technology in Teaching English as a Foreign Language
Murodova Zarina Sherali qizi
Uzbek State University of World Languages, English Faculty
Abstract
The increasing integration of technology into education has significantly influenced the methods and outcomes of teaching English as a Foreign Language (EFL). The use of digital tools, online platforms, and interactive applications allows teachers to create engaging and learner-centered environments that enhance communication, motivation, and language acquisition. This research paper examines the impact of modern technology on EFL instruction, explores its advantages and challenges, and provides evidence-based recommendations for educators.
The study is grounded in a review of current research, case studies, and educational frameworks that illustrate how technological innovation can enhance language teaching effectiveness. The findings reveal that technology not only facilitates linguistic competence but also fosters learners’ digital literacy, collaboration, and intercultural awareness.
Keywords: technology, English as a Foreign Language, digital learning, EFL pedagogy, motivation, online platforms, language education.
Introduction
In recent decades, the advancement of digital technologies has profoundly reshaped education worldwide. The emergence of e-learning, artificial intelligence (AI), and mobile-assisted language learning (MALL) has transformed how languages are taught and learned. In English as a Foreign Language (EFL) classrooms, technology plays a crucial role in making instruction more interactive, flexible, and personalized. As English continues to serve as the global language of communication, business, and science, effective EFL instruction is essential for preparing students to participate in an increasingly interconnected world. The integration of technology in EFL teaching aligns with global educational priorities established by UNESCO and the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), which emphasize digital literacy and innovation in learning.
By using digital tools such as Google Classroom, Kahoot, Duolingo, and Quizlet, teachers can diversify instructional strategies and adapt to different learning styles. The relevance of this study lies in analyzing how such tools improve learning outcomes, promote autonomous learning, and enhance both linguistic and socio-cultural competence.
Literature Review
The pedagogical potential of technology in language education has been widely explored by scholars. Warschauer (2013) emphasizes that the integration of computers and digital communication fosters learner autonomy and authentic language use. Similarly, Chapelle (2001) highlights that computer-assisted language learning (CALL) environments encourage meaningful interaction and feedback that traditional classrooms often lack. Recent studies extend this discussion to mobile learning and artificial intelligence. According to Kukulska-Hulme (2020), mobile technologies provide flexibility and accessibility, allowing learners to engage in continuous learning beyond the classroom.
Reinders and Benson (2021) further argue that digital learning supports self-regulated learning, enabling students to monitor their progress and manage their study habits effectively. The effectiveness of online learning platforms has also been demonstrated through empirical evidence. Research conducted by Al-Mahrooqi and Troudi (2019) found that students using interactive platforms such as Edmodo and Zoom developed stronger speaking and listening skills compared to those using traditional methods.
Moreover, Dudeney and Hockly (2018) stress that technology, when aligned with pedagogical objectives, enhances motivation and engagement by providing multimodal and authentic materials such as videos, podcasts, and virtual simulations. Despite the numerous advantages, some researchers caution against overreliance on digital tools. Beatty (2013) and Stockwell (2022) note that unequal access to technology, limited teacher training, and inadequate digital literacy remain significant challenges. These concerns underline the necessity of balanced integration, where technology serves as a supplement—not a substitute—for effective pedagogy.
Methodology
This research is based on a qualitative analysis of secondary data from academic journals, institutional reports, and empirical studies conducted between 2018 and 2024. The main method of investigation includes comparative analysis, synthesis, and critical review of existing literature. The selected materials were analyzed to identify patterns and outcomes related to technology-enhanced EFL teaching.
Additionally, observational data from various educational contexts were reviewed to assess the implementation of digital platforms such as Google Classroom, Kahoot, Duolingo, Quizlet, and YouTube in EFL instruction. The analysis focuses on how these technologies contribute to skill development in reading, writing, listening, and speaking, as well as how they foster motivation, collaboration, and intercultural communication.
Findings and Discussion
1. Pedagogical Benefits of Technology Integration Technology transforms EFL instruction by making learning interactive and student-centered. Multimedia tools such as videos, podcasts, and animations appeal to multiple learning styles, helping students visualize linguistic patterns and cultural contexts. Interactive quizzes and gamified learning elements increase motivation and engagement.
Online tools like Kahoot and Quizlet allow immediate feedback, enabling learners to assess their performance and teachers to monitor progress effectively. Google Classroom enhances communication between teachers and students, facilitating the submission of assignments, peer feedback, and collaborative projects. Furthermore, platforms such as Duolingo and BBC Learning English provide opportunities for self-paced learning, allowing students to practice anytime and anywhere.
2. Development of Learner Autonomy and Digital Competence Technology empowers learners to take control of their own learning process. Autonomous learning is supported through self-access platforms, language apps, and online communities where learners exchange ideas and practice communication. This approach aligns with constructivist theories of learning, which emphasize active engagement and self-discovery.
Digital literacy—an essential skill in the 21st century—is simultaneously developed as learners navigate online environments, evaluate information sources, and use digital tools responsibly. Studies by Godwin-Jones (2021) confirm that digital competence strengthens learners’ ability to participate effectively in academic and professional contexts.
3. Challenges and Limitations
Despite its advantages, integrating technology in EFL classrooms presents several challenges. In many regions, limited internet access, outdated infrastructure, and insufficient teacher training hinder effective implementation. Teachers may also face difficulties in designing pedagogically sound lessons that integrate technology meaningfully.
Another concern is the potential decline in interpersonal communication if digital tools replace, rather than complement, face-to-face interaction. Maintaining balance between technology and traditional pedagogy is therefore essential. Training programs that improve teachers’ digital skills and pedagogical awareness are necessary to ensure optimal use of technology in the classroom.
Conclusion
Technology plays an indispensable role in modern EFL pedagogy, offering new opportunities to improve language acquisition, learner motivation, and teaching efficiency. When implemented thoughtfully, digital tools enhance interaction, personalization, and learner autonomy. However, successful integration requires careful planning, continuous teacher training, and equitable access to technological resources. The synergy between traditional teaching methods and innovative technologies produces the most effective outcomes. As the global demand for English proficiency continues to grow, the ability to use technology intelligently and creatively in language education becomes not just a pedagogical advantage but a necessity for the future of education.
References
Al-Mahrooqi, R., & Troudi, S. (2019). Using Technology in EFL Classrooms to Enhance Speaking Skills. International Journal of English Language Education, 7(2), 45–63.Beatty, K. (2013). Teaching and Researching Computer-Assisted Language Learning.Routledge.Chapelle, C. A. (2001). Computer Applications in Second Language Acquisition. Cambridge University Press.Dudeney, G., & Hockly, N. (2018). How to Teach English with Technology. Pearson Education.Godwin-Jones, R. (2021). Emerging Technologies in Language Learning and Teaching. Language Learning & Technology, 25(2), 1–13.Kukulska-Hulme, A. (2020). Mobile-Assisted Language Learning (MALL): Current Trends and Future Prospects. ReCALL, 32(2), 233–252.Reinders, H., & Benson, P. (2021). Researching Autonomy in Language Learning. Palgrave Macmillan.Richards, J. C., & Rodgers, T. S. (2014). Approaches and Methods in Language Teaching. Cambridge University Press.Stockwell, G. (2022). Technology and the Language Learner: A Longitudinal Perspective. TESOL Quarterly, 56(1), 27–46.Warschauer, M. (2013). The Role of Technology in Teaching English. TESOL Quarterly, 47(4), 825–836.
My name is Zarina Murodova. I was born on January 13, 2007, in Narpay district, Samarkand region, Uzbekistan. There are five members in my family. I received my primary education at School No. 21.Currently, I am studying at the Uzbekistan State World Languages University, majoring in Philology and Teaching Languages (English Language).In my free time, I enjoy playing hockey, practicing karate, reading books, drawing, and organizing events. These activities help me relax and develop myself. In the future, I aspire to become one of the leading specialists in society and contribute to the prosperity and development of my country.
The year was 1982, and Cape Town stood before me like a postcard come to life, a stunning coastal paradise that belied the dark political reality gripping South Africa. Our Castlemont team, Robert Carlyle, Rudiger Gartner from our Berlin office, and I, arrived in what we believed to be a dazzling mirage at the southern tip of the continent.
That morning, we strolled along the old waterfront beneath a sky of gauzy light. Sun filtered through soft clouds in long, radiant shafts, while seabirds drifted high above, indifferent to the weight of history below.
We were staying at Ellerman House, Cape Town’s most exquisite retreat, perched high above Bantry Bay. The property was a magnificent blend of Cape Dutch colonial charm and Mediterranean grandeur, with its winding staircases and cream colored balustrades smooth as crafted marble, catching the golden light. Each suite offered sweeping ocean views and a sense of stillness that made time feel suspended.
After our long morning walk, Carlyle, Rudi, and I climbed the stairs of Ellerman House, hungry for their brunch. My producing partners were larger than life in both physique and appetite. They could’ve passed for brothers; same height and same Alfred Hitchcock girth. Both wore matching crowns of silver hair, perfectly coiffed and shellacked with AquaNet to conceal the creeping truth of their bald spots. They were often marinated in Lagerfeld cologne, the kind of fragrance that entered a room ten seconds before they did. Gourmet meals were their weakness. Actresses, their downfall. They ordered their steaks rare and smoked unfiltered cigarettes, remaining undeterred by the surgeon general’s warnings.
Ellerman’s famous brunch was served on its massive terrace, a broad stretch that opened toward the sea. The view was stunning, a horizon of endless Atlantic blue where the sky dissolved into the ocean. At the center stood a long buffet table, laid with bold extravagance: shrimp piled high, oysters gleaming with a bright mignonette, chilled lobster, and pickled seafood. Nearby, jewel-toned salads and caviar set-ups flanked trays of canapés arranged so precisely they looked as if Santa’s elves had taken up catering in the off-season.
The terrace was filled with well-dressed guests, men in crisp linen suits with pastel ties, and women in chiffon floral sundresses that fluttered in the breeze. Black waiters moved through the crowd with the polish of young lieutenants, offering fruit-laced mimosas to start, then Bloody Marys once the serious eating began. I nearly matched my companions bite for bite, sip for sip. We drank. We laughed. We looked at one another with the kind of glee that bubbles up only when everything feels perfect. I glanced down at the oyster on my plate and thought, This must be where the expression ‘the world is your oyster’ comes from. In that moment, it felt entirely true.
As I glanced around at the terrace, I felt a slow chill rise in my chest as the thought struck me. There wasn’t a single person of color among the diners. In that moment, I remembered exactly where I was.
We hadn’t come to Cape Town for the scenery or the five-star brunch, tempting as both were. The Castlemont contingent was there on a mission, one that would prove more sobering than any of us anticipated. We arrived in this coastal city at the bottom of the world after two fraught days in Johannesburg.
Our journey to the Republic of South Africa was riddled with complications from the start. We flew South African Airways, not by choice, but out of necessity. Robert Carlyle had a complicated history on the African continent, particularly in Lagos, Nigeria, where he and his brother, Redmond, spent the 1970s oil boom brokering construction deals for American and European hotels.
I got the story in the first-class lounge at Heathrow, during a long layover before our midnight flight to Johannesburg. Carlyle was nursing a Johnnie Walker Red over ice in his signature bucket glass—“None of that skinny tumbler nonsense,” he’d always say. “I want room to think.” He lounged in a low leather chair like a man expecting applause, even if I was the only audience in sight.
Physically, Carlyle was full of contradictions—overweight, with a broad, commanding presence and steel grey eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He carried himself with the ease of a duke. His clothes were impeccable: silk shirts that fit just right, custom slacks, Italian loafers without a single scuff. His grooming was equally precise; clean-shaven, nails neatly trimmed, and always a breath mint in his pocket, just in case diplomacy was required. Women found him fascinating. He exuded that rare kind of confidence that made people lean in just a little closer. When he entered a room, the energy shifted; when he spoke, people listened. He once told me there were only two kinds of class: first and none. He lived by this code.
But more than anything, he was a raconteur. His stories were bold, told with such conviction and flair that you didn’t dare question the details or veracity. And to my good fortune, he was my mentor, the man who taught me how to take a meeting, take a risk, and take no bullshit.
When I first met Robert at Castlemont Productions, he was already a respected producer, known for his vast knowledge of international business and his calm authority. It wasn’t until that night in the Heathrow Lounge that I learned about his earlier deals, negotiating labyrinthine and cross-border contracts for major studios. He told these stories with gusto, relishing the intrigue and the sheer improbability of it all. Listening to him recount midnight escapades running guns on the Ogun River in Lagos, or negotiating backchannel deals in European capitals, I felt as though I’d been handed a keycard to the hidden floors of international life, where the real deals were struck behind closed doors and heavy drapes.
“Nigeria in the ’70s,” Carlyle said, swirling the ice in his glass, “was unpredictable. With the right connections, you could make a lot of money fast.”
It was clear Carlyle belonged to that set, a man who made, and probably lost, obscene amounts of money.
“Oil money was pouring in, and Lagos was full of promise. Construction sites sprang up overnight, featuring hotels, corporate towers, and planned communities. Deals were struck over cocktails, sealed with a handshake.” Carlyle laughed, clearly savoring the memory.
“Red and I were negotiating hotel deals,” he said, “but mostly we were waiting—for permits, for payments, and trying to figure out whose palm needed greasing.”
He leaned in then, lowering his voice just enough to suggest mischief.
“I may have brought in a few things that drew the wrong kind of attention. A personal weapon. A couple of Playboys for the boys. A bit of gold stitched into the lining of my blazer. More cash than was legally permitted.”
I raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly did you get all that contraband into Nigeria?”
Carlyle grinned. “Haven’t you been listening? The cash, Sally. You could get anything past customs as long as it came wrapped in American dollars.” I was enthralled as he shared these tasty details. I never knew anyone like him.
“Red and I had a lot of time on our hands, so we decided to become The Grunt Brothers. Red and Runny Grunt. A piano lounge act. Red would croon in an exaggerated Sinatra-style. He’d start singing an Engelbert Humperdinck number, and I’d bang out the chords. The ladies ate it up. If the pay were better, I’d have done it full-time.”
His tone shifted from Our Man in Havana to a darker, more deliberate cadence.
“We made a few friends. And a few we wouldn’t mind never seeing again. There were … incidents. One arrest. A little surveillance. Things got a bit murky after that.”
I couldn’t shake the sense that he was only skimming the surface, just enough to intrigue, never sufficient to reveal.
“I’ve learned to be careful about where I travel ever since.”
He paused, his face unreadable. He might have been rethinking just how much he wanted to reveal to his eager acolyte.
“When the Gowon government collapsed, the Americans ran. The new regime didn’t care who you were; they assumed we were all spies. Red and I were added to their hit list after they decided our contract trades were fraudulent, total bullshit. We were declared enemies of the state. Permanently barred from returning.”
He spoke the next part quietly, almost to himself.
“If we’d set foot in Lagos again, we would’ve been arrested on the spot.”
To avoid any unplanned stopovers in “unfriendly” nations, Carlyle explained, our safest option was to fly South African Airways to Johannesburg. During apartheid, SAA was denied flyover rights by most African countries, so their routes were designed to bypass the entire continent. This meant flying around the “bulge” of Africa, an exhaustingly long journey made worse by the airline’s strict enforcement of apartheid-era censorship.
I was filled with excitement as we boarded the midnight flight to Johannesburg. Flight attendants moved through the cabin like customs agents, confiscating “contraband” reading materials. My copies of Time and Newsweek vanished, along with those of other passengers—Playboy, Stern, and The London Times—all deemed subversive.
The night flight was plagued by brutal turbulence. Somewhere over the Atlantic, a wobbly Englishman staggered into the aisle and demanded, “Where the hell is the captain?” Passengers stiffened. The crew didn’t flinch, but I could sense it—the way their eyes started tracking the cabin differently. More alert now. Within seconds, the captain marched down the aisle: tall, steely, and in no mood for boozy defiance.
“Take your seat, sir,” he commanded.
The drunk jabbed a finger toward the front of the plane. “We need to change this goddamn flight path! I’m in first class, and I’d like a drink. Damn your turbulence—and damn you!”
The captain’s voice was flat and final. “Changing course isn’t an option.”
He let that settle, then added: “We have no radio communication.” The drunk just stared at him quizzically. “Political restrictions. We cannot radio down. No one will take our call.”
That line hit the nervous passengers like a sudden pressure drop. For the first time, I understood just how alone we were up there in that tempest. SAA could send out signals all night, but the continent below wouldn’t respond.
The man slumped back into his seat. The captain pivoted and walked back to the cockpit.
Carlyle tried to reason with the defeated drunk, but the man wasn’t listening. He pressed a mini bottle of Johnnie Walker Red into his hand—finally, a little peace for all of us aboard that blustery flight.
When we landed at Jan Smuts International, armed men in paramilitary uniforms boarded the plane and moved directly to the boisterous Englishman. They snapped on the cuffs, seized him by the arms, and escorted him off without a word. Their silence was more unnerving than a shout.
As we drove into downtown Johannesburg, I was struck by how bleak it was—colorless and institutional. Concrete high-rises pressed in from every direction, interrupted only by wide roads and razor-straight curbs. There were few parks, little greenery, and almost nothing to soften the landscape. Carlyle agreed with my assessment.
To my delight, Rudi Gartner was waiting for us in the lobby of the Hotel Carlton. “Willkommen, meine Freundin,” he said with a grin, embracing us both like old friends. He led us to a quiet corner where a thoughtful afternoon tea was laid out with a tidy arrangement of finger sandwiches and canapés. I kissed him on both cheeks. “You’re an angel,” I said, meaning every word.
The lobby hummed with the soft din of a first-rate hotel: phones ringing at the reception desk and the low rumble of luggage wheels across the stone floor. After the flight we’d endured, the calm felt medicinal. We eased into our chairs and let the tea work its magic, steadying our nerves, taking the edge off the flight. We finished the last of the sandwiches and agreed to meet later for a proper meal at the hotel restaurant.
At dinner, the system revealed itself. Our waiter, a courteous, sharply dressed Black man, leaned in and murmured, “Your meal may be a bit rushed this evening, I’m afraid.” He said it with such grace, I almost missed the warning.
Rudi didn’t. He set down his menu and spoke in a low voice. “There’s a ten p.m. curfew,” he said. “For anyone who isn’t White.”
I blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Black, Indian, and so-called ‘colored’ residents. By law, they must be out of town by ten. They’re shuttled back to Soweto.”
Soweto. I’d heard the name on the news, but it hadn’t registered until now.
“They’re forced to leave?” I asked.
“Every night,” Rudi said. “And what they go home to is an overcrowded hell-hole.”
“And nobody does anything about this?” my voice rising.
Rudi shrugged, folding his napkin. “Who’s ‘no one’? The people with power aren’t affected. The people affected have none.”
He sipped his coffee.
“That’s how it’s done here.”
I stared at him, irritated by his seeming acceptance of this cruel reality.
A waiter poured more coffee as Rudi continued,“ Growing up in Berlin taught me to pay attention. The city was divided, bombed, and constantly observed. It wasn’t dangerous, exactly. Just … tense.”
He paused, his gaze fixed just beyond the edge of the table.
“My family was in the East. Friends too. Hauled off to jail because their TV antennas were pointed toward the west. People just … vanished.”
His expression darkened, and his voice took on a quiet edge as he sipped his coffee.
“I spent years doing business behind the Iron Curtain—Belgrade, Warsaw, Prague. You didn’t need to see soldiers in the street to know where you were. The fear was in the air. Phones were tapped. You were always being watched.”
Carlyle and I were surprised by his candor.
“Sally, what do you think could be done about it?” he asked forcefully.
I didn’t have an answer. The rules, the layers, the sheer machinery of it all—it overwhelmed me. I sat still, trying to understand what he’d seen firsthand, knowing this wasn’t an abstraction. It was the architecture of his past. I just shook my head.
Rudi glanced around the restaurant, then made a slow, sweeping gesture with his hand.
“So, no,” he said. “I’m not surprised by any of this.”
He picked up his coffee cup and finished the last sip. Nothing more needed to be said.
Watching the staff file out, uniforms crisp, faces unreadable, I felt my stomach twist. The whole thing was obscene.
I couldn’t wait to leave this joyless city behind and head to our real destination: Cape Town.
###
We came to Cape Town to scout locations, conduct research, and pursue financing for an ambitious historical screenplay, James Barry, written by Carlyle and me. Dr. Barry was a 19th-century British Army surgeon who built a reputation here as a brilliant physician and an outspoken advocate for sanitation reform. But it was the secret beneath the uniform that first drew us in: James Barry was born Margaret Bulkley, a woman who, in an era that barred women from studying medicine, reinvented herself entirely to pursue her calling.
She lived as a man for more than fifty years, not as a temporary disguise but as a lifelong commitment to her work. She faced down military generals and treated wounded soldiers on the battlefield of the Crimean War. On Robben Island, she attended to lepers who were left to rot. The sheer audacity of it—choosing vocation over self—was staggering to me. She was a woman who shattered conventions and refused to let the world dictate her existence or limit her calling.
Carlyle and I envisioned the Barry project as a grand epic: wind-swept coastlines, vast views of the South African savannah, all set against the stark weight of colonial power; pure David Lean, large-screen grandeur with history embedded in every shot.
In Hollywood terms, we were golden. An Oscar-winning actress was obsessed with playing the role of Barry. A major male star was circling the role of Charles Somerset, the Governor of the Cape Colony, her lover and protector. We struck a deal with Olympia Pictures and secured an A-list director with a prestigious award on his mantel. On paper, it was everything a production company could hope for: prestige, scale, and serious star power. Carlyle and I spent more than a year developing and writing the script, which drew enthusiastic responses from both talent and financiers. Castlemont was riding high, fueled by cinematic ambition and a steady flow of development funding.
I was thrilled to be in Dr. James Barry’s adopted country, chasing down any facts or clues that might bring us closer to the heart of this mysterious and fascinating figure.
Our first meeting in Cape Town was with our host, Paul Steiger, a short German national who owned one of the region’s largest textile factories, specializing in jute and plastic packaging. Rudi arranged the introduction. What we encountered was far from ordinary business.
South African factories at that time were notorious for their brutal conditions: twelve-hour shifts, low pay, and little attention paid to worker safety. Herr Steiger’s factory was no exception. Weaving machines clattered at full tilt, generating a mechanical roar that made conversation impossible. I couldn’t imagine working at those machines for twelve minutes, let alone twelve hours. It felt like Blake’s dark vision, one of those “satanic mills,” grinding away at the human soul as efficiently as it processed jute. The air was thick with heat and lint. As I was led down the narrow aisles, flanked by rows of workers, mostly Black women hunched over their machines, I could feel their stares boring holes through my skull. I was a young visitor, an outsider, moving freely through a place where their freedom was crushed daily. For a moment, I imagined doing something cinematic and bold—leaping onto a worktable and shouting “Union! Union! Union!” like a fiery Norma Rae. But this wasn’t a film set. There were no unions. No whistleblowers. There are no government agencies to protect these hardworking women. By the late 1980s, protest movements began to gain traction in Cape Town, ultimately leading to significant reforms. But that day, the injustice was palpable, and the memory of those women’s eyes has stayed with me ever since.
After a brisk walk-through of the factory, we piled into Herr Steiger’s massive Mercedes for the next leg of the tour. He was eager to showcase the Cape Dutch Colonial architecture that would feature prominently in our film, along with the Charles Somerset Hospital, where Dr. Barry treated her patients.
Steiger was a small man who could barely see over the massive dashboard, yet he drove with the blithe confidence of a man twice his size. He handled the Mercedes like Mr. Magoo, cheerfully oblivious as he drifted into oncoming traffic, ignoring the blaring horns and screeching tires. We chain-smoked like grotesque fiends in the back seat, trying to stifle our gasps and quiet screams. I silently wondered if this was how I’d die: flattened by a fruit truck on the outskirts of Cape Town, in the company of a textile baron with a death wish. Steiger remained blissfully unaware. Just as another eighteen-wheeler came roaring straight at us, Rudi leaned forward and barked, “Halt hier, bitte! Diese Location ist fantastisch!” It was a ruse, Rudi’s desperate attempt to get us out of the car before we became a headline. Herr Steiger obediently yanked the wheel and veered off the highway in a maneuver that sent us into a tailspin, kicking up a cloud of dust as we skidded onto a patch of soft dirt shoulder. He beamed as if he’d discovered a diamond mine, then gestured grandly toward the landscape. “Isn’t it magnificent?” he said, utterly unfazed.
We tumbled out of the car, legs shaky, coughing and barely able to breathe, pretending we were after the perfect shot, not just grateful to be back on solid ground. As it turned out, this stretch of landscape was ideal. Carlyle and I took roll after roll of photographs, capturing the rolling hills, sun-dappled vineyards, and unspoiled farmland of Stellenbosch, confident it would meet our film’s every cinematic need.
From the roadside, Steiger led us to his private vineyard, a scenic estate tucked into the hills and unmistakably his pride and joy. The setting was idyllic. Though it was March, the air carried the golden softness of a Marin County autumn. A pair of staffers appeared with a tray of chilled floral wines, which we sipped gratefully. We barely raised our glasses when Walther Rothmann came bursting onto the scene, trailed by a fragile-looking blonde with pale alabaster skin and oversized sunglasses that swallowed half her face. She barely acknowledged any of us, gliding behind Walther like a shadow in a white linen sundress that rendered her almost invisible.
He was in his thirties—polished, ambitious, and visibly thrilled to be included.
“Herr Rothmann!” Steiger called out, beaming. “Come, meet the Castlemont team.”
We rose as he made the introductions. “Miss Trent, Mister Carlyle, Herr Gartner. This is Walther Rothmann.” Walther shook our hands with prolonged enthusiasm. “Please, just Walther. I’ve read your James Barry script—twice, actually—and I think it’s very, very good. Truly. It’s got everything: daring, sword fights, a woman ahead of her time. And she pulled a clever trick on those pompous Brits!”
He beamed. “I’d like to produce my first feature here, what could be better?”
He glanced back as if remembering she was there. “And this is Sunny.”
Sunny offered little more than a faint smile, then looked away, her gaze drifting toward the vines. She remained utterly inscrutable. I laughed a little, catching the irony of her name.
Rudi gave Walther a cool nod, then murmured to me, “Let’s just hope he reads contracts as carefully as he reads scripts.”
We passed the rest of the afternoon under a shade tree, sipping wine and hammering out terms for additional financing. Herr Steiger, as it turned out, was as good as his word—and our visit proved more fruitful than we’d dared to hope.
On the drive back to Cape Town, I sat in the back seat, scribbling thoughts in my notebook about the parallels between wealthy, fascist South Africa and the struggling communist regimes of East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, and Yugoslavia. Different ideologies, same result: power concentrated in the hands of a ruling few, while the majority endured bleak living conditions and even bleaker prospects. Civil dissent was treated as treason, freedom of speech didn’t exist, and the media functioned purely as a mouthpiece for state propaganda. At Ellerman House, I threw myself on the bed, too tired to remove anything but my shoes.
We were on a tight, albeit productive schedule. The following afternoon, Rudi led us down a side street to the Crowbar Pub, a no-frills brewery wedged between a shuttered tailor shop and a liquor store near the city center. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of hops and fried onions; the crowd was young and White. At a back table sat Jilly and Martin, the British-Afrikaans filmmakers we’d come to see, a married couple who’d spent their entire lives in Cape Town. Introductions were made. Rudi explained that we were his Hollywood partners, on a scouting trip, looking to shoot a feature in the Cape. I was pleased when Jilly nodded at the mention of our subject, James Barry.
“Fascinating figure,” she said. “Born Margaret, but lived and worked as a male doctor. Barry was a trailblazer.”
When we asked about their vocations, Jilly explained that they made documentaries, primarily about South Africa’s national parks, wildlife, and conservation efforts.
“We try to focus on what’s beautiful here,” she said. “The land, the animals, the fragile ecosystems.”
Martin added, “It’s not political work. At least, not on the surface. But in this country, everything’s political.”
I glanced at Carlyle, then back at the couple. “That’s being generous. Jo’burg was bad enough. But the Cape Town factory, Jesus. Women hunched over their machines, the noise like a war zone.”
Jilly nodded, “It catches up with you. Eventually, you have to decide where you stand.” She glanced at Martin. “We learned that the hard way. We went to a pro-union demonstration in Belleville South,” she continued. “Peaceful, until the Cape Town Gestapo showed up.”
Martin took a long sip of beer. “Those bastards came in swinging. No warning. Batons, shields, and tear gas. They charged the crowd like we were terrorists.”
“They cracked open a student’s head right in front of me,” Jilly said. “He was maybe fifteen. Just holding a sign.”
Her voice stayed steady, but her gaze was floating elsewhere.
“I tried to run,” she went on. “One of them grabbed me by the hair, yanked me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. They cuffed me and dragged me to a van.” Martin nodded grimly. “I took a baton to the back before they threw me in a holding cell. They left us in there like animals—no food, no phone call, nothing. Took three days before I could call my parents, let alone a lawyer.”
He glanced down, shaking his head. “The Black kids had it so much worse. Just a few months earlier, the cops opened fire on striking miners near Cape Town. Eight young men were killed. The ones they didn’t shoot, they dragged off and tortured in their cells.” I was appalled by the actions of the Cape Town police and their excessive use of force.
The waiter arrived just then with The Gatsby,an enormous sandwich bursting with fries and chili sauce. Carlyle took a hearty bite and instantly turned fire-engine red. He coughed, reached for his beer, and waved down the waiter.
“For the love of God,” he rasped. “What is in that?”
I smirked. “State secrets, no doubt.”
Jilly allowed the faintest smile. “You should try the meat pies at the Ministry of Information.”
We laughed, said our goodbyes, then made our way out into the cooling dusk. The walk back to Ellerman House was quiet. A bewildering nausea overtook me as I sensed the hostility and unhappiness of people in their own country, combined with the feeling of being spied on by government agents. I couldn’t decide where I felt safer—in the leafy suburbs of Cape Town, where opposing liberal viewpoints could get you arrested, or on the bleak streets of East Berlin?
When we reached Ellerman House, I threw my arms around my burly co-producers in a wave of confused emotion that even I couldn’t explain. They exchanged puzzled glances as I bolted up the stairs. I landed face-first on the bed and slept like the dead for twelve straight hours.
James Barry never progressed beyond the dream stage. We couldn’t close the financing, our stars slipped away, and our director took a studio deal and stopped returning Carlyle’s calls.
And so, James Barry was dropped and quietly tossed onto the bottomless Hollywood trash heap, where all the other unmade scripts go to die.
Carlyle and I were laid low. This tough guy with the hide of a rhinoceros was hurting as much as I was. He offered offhandedly, “Some stories,” he said gently, “just don’t make it.”
I spun around, tears streaking down my cheeks as the dam of emotions finally broke. “But James Barry deserved to. It was meant to be told on screens in full Technicolor. We had a vision.” I was practically hysterical, sobbing as the weight of it all crashed in.
Bob smiled at me, “Sure, Hotshot. But we didn’t have that last, elusive ingredient every Hollywood film needs to survive: luck.”
I let out a loud, broken sob—and then laughed, because damn it, he was right.
###
Watching Out of Africa years later—with its sweeping vistas, David Lean-style grandeur, and that unforgettable score, I felt gutted. It was everything we once dreamed of making. Life moved on, but James Barry remains a ghost story at the edge of my memory. In quiet moments, I can still see her in full military regalia, bold as brass, in the film we never made.
As I sip my morning coffee in the quiet of my living room, watching the waves roll in below my window, my thoughts drift back to South Africa. The memories of our film project recede to the periphery, eclipsed now by the real story—the story of a country on the brink.
I remember the hostile stares. Tense conversations reduced to whispers, the palpable fear and dread. In 1982, I didn’t believe for a second that South Africa could change without swells of violence. It seemed impossible. The anger was everywhere. I thought to myself that one day the White rulers would be slaughtered in their beds in the dark of night by an angry Black majority; justice arriving not with ballots, but with machetes, delivered by an oppressed people pushed to their breaking point. I shuddered at this disturbing image of revenge.
And then, the unimaginable happened. Nelson Mandela pulled South Africa back from the precipice. Through quiet strength and unwavering resolve, he led the country away from catastrophe and dismantled the yoke of apartheid for twenty-eight million people. The fiery revolt so many feared never came. South Africa began again, not through violence, but through vision. Mandela guided the country with patience and moral authority, and miraculously, the nation followed. It became a beacon of hope to others still living under injustice, a reminder that even the deepest wounds begin to heal when a leader steps forward with patience and grace. I marvel that apartheid was dismantled within my lifetime, that a nation built on cruelty and division could be pulled back from the brink by a force as fragile as it was formidable: hope. It made me believe that history can still surprise us, and that grace, when it holds its ground, can move mountains.
There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires.
Emran Emon named among South Asia’s influential columnistsFeature Desk: Prominent journalist, columnist and global affairs analyst Emran Emon has been listed among South Asia’s most influential columnists—alongside some of the subcontinent’s most celebrated intellectuals and literary figures.The prestigious lineup includes India’s Shashi Tharoor, Arundhati Roy, P. Sainath, Barkha Dutt, Ravish Kumar and Ramachandra Guha; Pakistan’s I.A. Rehman, Kamila Shamsie, Huma Yusuf and Mohsin Hamid; Sri Lanka’s Rohini Mohan and Dayan Jayatilleka, and Nepal’s Kanak Mani Dixit. Other Bangladeshis on this list include Syed Badrul Ahsan, Mahfuz Anam and Afsan Chowdhury. Recently, a Google statistical report published these findings.What makes this achievement remarkable is that Emran Emon is the youngest columnist on the list, representing Bangladesh with intellectual distinction and moral clarity at a time when the region’s journalistic integrity and freedom of expression face renewed tests.Reflecting on this milestone, Emran Emon said with characteristic humility: “To see my name—especially as the youngest—stand beside these globally acclaimed intellectuals, representing Bangladesh, is nothing short of a lifetime honor. I do not take pride in my name alone; my pride lies in the word ‘Bangladesh‘ that stands beside it.”Over the past few years, Emran Emon has emerged as one of South Asia’s most incisive and fearless voices. Earlier, Emran Emon was listed in the Hindustan Times’ HT Syndication list of South Asia’s best writers. Foreign Policy magazine quotes Emran Emon as “Influential Regional Voice.” His columns—often marked by analytical depth, historical grounding, and literary resonance—have examined critical global and regional questions: from the shifting balance of power in Asia and the digital sovereignty debate, to climate justice, press repression, and the moral crises of modern governance.Scholars and fellow writers have described him as a “writer of conscience and conviction,” whose work bridges the worlds of politics, literature, and ethics. His pieces, published in both English and Bengali, have gained widespread readership across South Asia and the global diaspora.An editor of an influential English daily noted: “Emran Emon’s inclusion is more than personal success—it’s a national moment as well as a matter of pride for Bangladesh itself. He represents a generation of Bangladeshis who think globally but remain deeply rooted in the moral soil of 1971. His pen carries both intellect and integrity. Emran Emon has always been a nationalist writer who writes against the current. The bold and fearless pieces he has written—born of a deep sense of Bangladeshi nationalism—stand as a priceless asset to the nation.”
Sweaty weary Jai alai players, taking hydration break 5 on the sidelines, snapped on their battery radio permanently tuned to the “long-term super-hot easy listening hit station ‘H’arlo Zimarsuelle’”, hoping to hear something “smooth & sensualle”, only to be crowned on their reasonable tops by this surprise traanounce-munt…; ||| sayeth ||| I’m Quip Schweeney, reporting on the disquietingly rapid drop in density of—What? What’s this? Where’s the music—and who the hell’s Dik Schteenie? Sounds like some kind of special announcement. Something must be—Sshhhhh—sshhhhh—let’s Jus’ keep listening!—rapid drop in density of chop-meat reserves worldwide .. What did all this dying? ||| sayeth ||| levels are {when the lower than usual rate of
Why all these flames rate of inventory replenishment is factored do round-bouts playing on, is factored in} and on so damned enduring? factored in} expected to drop to or below the ||| st’ sayeth ||| Can you make sense of this? No, but—let’s Jus’ keep listening! There’s more!—so as to ’ve become to or below the threshold amounts which a real attraction? ||| Let’s jump in all-whole-hog then, threshold amounts which must be sustained to support but—please “resay your name,” okay? to support the number of human “Grogans” ||| fin sath ‘e sayeth, bronco |||
Have confidence, as I am H’arlo Zimarsuelle, and it’s been a pan to meet you, number of—Whoah wow! First we got “Hick Steamy”, and now, what’d they say—they say Darlo Chipultipeck or some other kind of Blab-blubber what the hell was that?No, but—please shut up and Jus’ keep listening!—of human “Grogans” {when the higher than “housie”. {drumthwackette} ||| ass yash tube replyray-replyply ||| Yasso soso spermontschnisch, higher than usual population growth [what they based themselves out from back population growth of human “Grogans” planetwide—I know you said shut up and listen, but—what the hell is a human Grogan?
Beats the shit out of me, but it must be important, since its——a’a slight while, you know, you; that place back Spearmint City {oh, you could use some now? Hey—in your sector the shops are still open what the hell go for it yah what the hell what the hell when you need a chew you know what to do} {Yul!}, but, once bounce once more-more growth of “Grogans” planetwide is factored in} inhabiting the planet bounce-ounce :: :: once YES INHABITING THE PLANET—Since its all on the radio, must be true, must be happening, must be——more UP once more DOWN oh no no just once and only once (n’once) more! inhabiting the planet by the year
Okay okay okay— the year twenty-four lower the palms, please, it’s -four twenty-six just ‘bout this one thing, harp-piesostrurumme by the year twenty-four twenty-six; but, that aside please, twenty-five twenty-five, maybe [no cut that’s got copyrighted] palms all the way to your sides year twenty-four twenty-six—I’m confused—what the hell is going on, they lost me. This is a joke! Shut it off, I’m getting a headache.
No, wait—hey! No. We got to see what happens.Why?‘cause its—hold it—listen!I’m Quip Schweeney, here to report on the dropping density of—I think its starting over is it starting over?I don’t know, just shut it off. Look they’re going to close the court let’s just—No! I want to hear! Just a minute more, okay—just one more minute!— please, [no no no that’s got copyrighted] wave all that aside, ‘n simply give, What did all this dying dropping density of chop-meat reserves worldwide. |||
dropping density of chop-meat hey ha know that and yup I’m Quip Schweeney, here to save you from this crisis we will have the root|||Yas really think then we’ll have the root?||| I think so.||| Good! Think so (this writ l-large on hairboned paper by the only two available {makes it legal} at that point the transmission was cut and the radio station was successfully retaken by the authorities no harm done but someday we’ll say where we were when [what] this is where we’ll say we were when [what] when “history’s got made” what the hell else what what the hell else is there anything else—the signal cut off, and—Then the usual sweet music favored by the station resumed playing…Bahnjihzeen Wilson’s “Dans les morts du soir”, an old favorite—but—‘n the transistor switched off
dead quiet Wow. I am bushed.
outsideMe, too. Wonder—what you think all that just was?Eh. outside they’re I’m sure there’ll be something in the news tomorrow.Right. Or—nothing at all. Things this weird, that’s what they’re coming usually happens.That’s right—but, anyway, hey, want to hit the court for one more set? I’m up for it!Is there time? Uh, yeah—yes there’s time! Go!
outside they’re comingOkay—let’s go go come on go outside they’re coming . go . . . go outside they’re go go go go go go coming go go outside the guards rush go [static] oh, it’s nothing—hey, that was a hell of a catch! they’re coming guards rush outside where the hell are they going, go {smell smoke?} outside outside ou Oh yah—them? {I don’t know—maybe} Yah, that’s just the Grogans. Yah, we’ll stay open for them yes we will yes we will yes we oh, come on, let’s just keep playing—okay, what? Really? Huh?Please! Please! Let’s just keep playing!
My work has been published in such Journals as The Chicago Review, the New Orleans Review, Witness, The Fiddlehead, Alaska Quarterly Review, and many others. Additionally, a number of my novel-length works have been published by various small presses (no self-publishing). More detail on my work may be found at www.jimmeirose.com.
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