mist in the hills

a paulownia leaf

drifts and falls

back to sleep

. . . on heavy meds



the trodden path 

of forest scent

autumn's voice

dampened by

the sound of rain



stifling 

the silence after

a cold autumn storm

recovery begins

then the relapse



good news

bad news

autumn mountains

the rainbow brighter

near its end 



under 

the tall pasture grass

fescue sprouts

where she last raked 

end of autumn 



Christina Chin / M. R. Defibaugh

Why the world needs more unlikeable female heroes
Emily is no criminal.

She’s the male anti-hero viewers have been fed to love and pine throughout the pre #MeToo era. She’s not likable, doesn’t talk about her past or present, and does not try to save or be saved, and when the heat comes around the corner, she flees.

Emily is the Neil McCauley to viewers’ Lt. Hannah, and she knows how to play it cool even at the darkest times. Her violence seems impeccable but shaky contrary to badass women in movies. She’s relatable and could have been any woman who has found herself in a situation where only the fight vs. flight responses stir the wheel.

In John Patton Ford’s “Emily the Criminal,” poverty, classism, misogyny, and injustice take over the action-packed hour-and-a-half feature. In no way do these heavy topics seem squeezed or rhetoric as they stem from a solid narrative, authentic and faithful to the story about how someone’s life could complicate as the system disables them from finding a way to succeed without going astray. Like McCauley’s determination never to go back to prison, Emily’s determination to pay her loans and never face another day with her face down drives the narrative. Her reactive violence has made her into the modern-day hero that viewers can easily root for. She’s no otherworldly strong woman who eats men for breakfast. Emily is afraid, hurt, bent, threatened, and insulted. But the difference from the other women in action movies is that she fights back with no prior training required.

Emily uses the MacGuffins thrown her way or the ones she randomly finds. Emily challenges the modern workforce, toxic femininity in the workplace, and the hypocrisy of women in managerial positions. She demands equal treatment from female managers who supposedly have made it, denouncing younger women who have to scrap a living while reminding them of how their “struggles were harder” and their fight against patriarchal male-dominated workplace “acts of martyrdom”.

Aubrey Plaza’s deadpan, serious, expressionless, tired, and worn-out features relate to other female viewers. Her realistic-looking face and skin of a woman who does not have time for skincare or beautification immediately hooked me. It is not some Hollywood pampered celebrity wearing shabby clothes to look “poor”. She has the face of a woman who has tasted misery, fear, financial tightness, and a hectic lifestyle. The contrast between Emily and her friend Liz shows through both actresses’ looks and clothing styles. The dialogue reveals a lot without being blatant. It draws people in through attention to detail where they get glimpses into Emily’s endless work shifts and sleepless nights. The film’s social commentary is bold but never takes center stage, allowing the main protagonist to shine and let the commentary and criticism flow through her. Scenes shot from the back a la French films styles (think Xavier Dolan and the Dardenne brothers) take the viewer on a journey where doors slam shut, food trays are delivered, corridors are walked, and business is sealed. The multiple times Emily has been shot from the back add to her mystery and turn her into a complex riddle that viewers strive to solve.

One of the highlights of the film is Emily’s relationship with Youcef. The sexual tension between the two characters is highlighted beautifully and with elegance. The film portrays Youcef through a sympathetic, understanding lens. He seems like an Arab character seen through the French filmmaker’s lens, as opposed to how most Arabs appear in popular American movies. Youcef lacks Emily’s boldness and assuredness, but his layered, complex relationship with women shows through the scenes where he blames her or allows her to be bullied by his controlling relative. The tender and intimate relationship between an Arab son and his Mama are shown beautifully in one of the rare peaceful scenes in the film. Viewers mostly watch it through Emily’s unflinching -yet mesmerized gaze- as she follows around the warm relationship between mother and son, which may hint at her lack of a similar familial experience.

The film dismisses Emily’s artistic side. That adds to the film’s supremacy as it clearly shows how dire financial situations and low social status suffocate the art and cause some artists to give up, or throw their talent behind out of frustration or self-loathing. Emily is an artist at heart, but she hates herself for not being the artist she is meant to be, so she denies it anytime someone brings it up. This part hit home for me, as I have been a struggling poet throughout my life, and during many stages, I have had to give up on my art and compensate it for regular jobs which pay little and do not satisfy the artist’s hungry soul. These dark phases have turned my relationship with my craft a bit unstable but also erratic, and it has taken me a while to get back on track in terms of reaching an upward curve that could have been present if not for the year’s gaps and interruptions.

The Emilys of our modern time matter. Recently dark, comical, sexual, and dangerous female characters have emerged in film or TV, but characters like Emily Benetto need to be more seen and heard. Their simplicity and relatability will resonate with many women worldwide watching and feeling burdened by social, economic, or societal injustice. Emily may not be a hero, but that’s why she needs to exist in a fictional world that seems horrifyingly similar to ours. We need the Emilys that empower the average workaholic woman.

The modern, practical, workaholic woman doesn’t need to cater to patriarchy. She needs outlet and catharsis through Ti West’s “Pearl” or Jennifer Kaytin Robinson’s “Do Revenge”, “Emily the Criminal” is a milestone in having the George Clooney and Brad Pitt complex misunderstood but lovable characters. They are mean, snarky, sneaky, unreliable, and narcissistic, but that’s part of their charm. Emily is by no means the poster kid for the female workers’ alliance -leave that to Norma Rae (1979)- but she has been suffering and facing unrealistic expectations from future jobs she applies to. That leads to her refusing to take bullshit from anybody, not a lover, a coworker, and especially not from a dark-rimmed glasses female superior who lectures her on generational differences in taking down the patriarchy in the workplace.

reflection

mirror of something —

the hummingbird

mistakes 

for a mate 



sundown… 

hungry after 

an evening walk

the village dweller

making fire



the homeless man

lives by the day

the sun sets on a stray dog

at my backyard

maybe it's love




the sparrow 

in and out of the nest

mother's love

a child and his father

where she calls home





time escapes hold

on the local train

with lit of cheer

on the dust 

powdered faces 





the departed soul

with the void

no return

only if he has 

no attachments



always 

the question of 'to-who' 

follow the owl

the new moon's emissary


to salvation






fifteenth night

of the seventh lunar moon

she's been...

the ghost i recognize

in this graveyard





unread 

messages…

rainy night

gently pounding the roof


heartbreak hotel






the vibrant 

deep and jazzy voice

in her belly

the old soul

sun & moon

Blue Screen On (Obsolete Technology)


A preconception shapes the shifting in endless blue waiting until the strength of the signal weathers or the wash in the wash hardens;

or holds in horizontal herds the setting for but not longing; unless the wrist-action rests, waiting for the breathless record...

aching, straining, dissolving

--

A study in reappearing is waiting at 99 edge of two-digital sank just above normal blue screen for prism flash:

Bent shafts of split screen at times so wavery clear that flash dints the log-green soft trade beholden to expectation's blue shrinkage's wrap. Or...

Bulges inverted to other bulges... sequent flashes, stilled kinks, and small osmoses of narration. Or...

Horizontal tension edged in shimmy, jalousie all through... but not thoroughly stripped of yellow; stained in full bluish wet, yet...

Caricature shines through...

a map of distortions... no matter the air or the day of the year distorted the same each repetition. Breakthrough at certain instances forming traditions of twice. Musical epidermal flashes that comprise the stories of anyone's guess.

--

Then the sea comes in clear but dancing on the beach bends the signal...

Longer than legal, but vanished instantly, the same bird flies...

Profiles burst on the scene, but I wait no more follow. Some suggestion of pleasure breaking the expanses. The one lamp that melts through though:

not picture-perfect perfect.


Unwinding



is my euphemism for you-know... of all things I call "activity," what's probably most ruined me, probably my last (whatever) to do before, you know... going to my rest,

my rest, or The rest, or...

I'm not about to unwind this evening. It's not that I've made vows not to; it's that I've unwound twice today already – you know, euphemism, by default, makes it difficult to guess; it consumes the hours I could be winding. I could be winding, you know...

--
Euphemism is resistant to correction. Circumlocution does not free it.


Unwinding

is not moving forward, but languishing, its attention elsewhere...

Half-wound person, I could get used to it, latent responses preventing further unraveling. 

--
Residual: The shadows aren't honest, but that's universal. The shouts are meant to focus attention.

Attention!


Unwinding

provokes too much strain now in the actual addiction, a substitute having taken precedence... as more welcoming: catalogs, memories, masterlessly construed, jogged out of heart rhythm, you see, I like the, uh,

but the mother in me doesn't.

Oh, those trance moments in true trance-nature – that brought my mother running – I remember her tea-cups telescoping.

--
(Confusion... conscious of the context, and the letter "C.")


Unwinding

is the symbol that stands for me, though at this time it does not stand for me, I can't sustain an interest. I've entered a deeper erasing. Euphemism is hiding from me. Through its protective core and its protective layer, it casts its iron vote for me, my proxy, it goes and stands in for me.

--
Boomerang euphemism: It stands for me; I can't stand it.


Unwinding... "Brutal." You hear the oink in it: The mood shifts, wear it. About that time a boat arrives. The tug of transition. I'm hoping the energy holds.

It folds.

--
My errors conspiring against me. 


Back There

Something is coming home to me, but it's taking its time getting here. Looking for clues in my thoughts earlier, I'd have to say: "I'm not looking for fame, just more confidence."

And a number of other things I'm ashamed of, like my tongue loosening, as I sing, "my tongue loosening, my tongue loosening, my tongue, loosening my tongue, loosening my tongue" to every note of Santana Abraxas. Every note.

And other such thoughts while I was driving down from Tahoe tonight, such as:

"Back there? what's."

I really did think that earlier. I don't know what to think of that now.

--

The moon was hanging over Hangtown as I wound down the curves, thinking again, "My car, my life!"

And as I've said so many times: "How a life can be reincarnated in the same life so many times and still not feel the strain (or mystery) gets me!"

And nothing more.

Except "what good is Art? It can't substitute for loneliness," and "I can never be completely confident," and "Fame is no measure of success."

And "Safety is no excuse," and "What the future is is very hard to interpret."

--

But.

Let me see if I can back up over this: I was thinking of the magnitude of a person, how one's could put another one's lights out, disable him (and here was thinking of specific persons). And also I thought of how I was my car spinning... its wheels, so? spinning its wheels it is. And spinning there in the corner by the statice flowers, an unclaimed memory of what I was thinking back there, which was, uh...

Shoot, it's not coming. It was, it was, just before I turned my head to think, "I am my car spinning..." It was... (?)

It's lost!

No! I was thinking what would they, anyone, want with Nothingness? but that... that thought was in a context I can't retrieve at the moment because I am concentrated on this task of reworking th..., reworking th... Oh, well...

--

Break: Well, I spaced out. And to get spaced back in, I thought I ought to concentrate on what I am right now, which is... spaced out. Oh, yeah, identities. I've had three or more. I keep vacillating, as if the change was not secure. I just don't feel like I have much hold on it, then I do. I won't go into it, but then I do.

I guess I'm still confused, and it isn't settled – but no, what was the point, it had to do with outline, no, not the border, not the edge, no, it lingered up in the birches and was lost.

"Up in the birches and was lost?" What do I mean? I mean that like a butterfly a brilliant insight has flitted from me.

In trying to embrace the image as it wobbled out of the puzzlebox... oh, I give up, I know it's incomplete, I don't know why it's fuzzy out of reach, or why it keeps slipping behind a cloud... It is a cloud, isn't it? It's a blackout cloud rising from the peak and heading towards me at one-hundred-thousand miles per hour, brace myself! it's ready to break, ah, just like the milky-warm waters off the Bermuda coast:

(.   .)

--

Here the art ends and the complaining begins.

--

I find this sort of backtracking at the end of my thinking, and though the thought is moot, I keep on going, I keep on going, until I have something to say:

I don't have much to say at this point.

I don't have much to say at this point, either. Soon I begin to see the parallels between my now looking back over my thoughts, and, and...

the Tie-in!

maybe.

Christmas Time!

There comes this holiday
It’s not just any other day!
The world has placed a strong value on it
People are always on the verge of doing the feat
Gifts, presents and other great substances are exhibited
The celebration galore is always depicted
All and sundry are in the mood of merriment
It’s the time for enjoyment
Compliments of its season are heard everywhere
The best of complimenting outfits kids wear
Love for one another becomes obvious
The event is indeed glamorous
Celebrating the birth of the Savior of the world is the reason some religions mark this holiday
This happens on the Dec.25th day
To some, it’s a time for sober reflections;
To determine their New Year’s Resolutions
To others, it’s the time for rest;
To prepare their minds for the best
To the business people, it’s time for sales;
To make efforts to work out yielding profit scales.
It’s simply celebration time!
It’s simply called Christmas Time!




The Christmas Proper

Jingle Bells I hear
The Horse’s Ride I care
Christmas bunnies I yearn
Boxed presents I earn
Decorations I learn
Santa Claus I fear
The Amusement park I visit
The Grotto I sit
Friends and families I have fun with
The fun I live everyday with
The Festivity I can’t afford to falter
The very reason I recognize The Christmas Proper

There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella

(Spanish title: Existe un hombre que tiene la costumbre de pegarme con un paraguas

en la cabeza)

(Translated from the Spanish by Clark M.
Zlotchew)

by Fernando Sorrentino

There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.

I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments
of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. 

He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t
exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance.

Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow.

The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella.

I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking
embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with
that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor,
impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off —we got off— at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue.

Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle.
Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that
at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even —God forgive me— umbrella blows. He would
meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying
out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me.

Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps
when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.

Fernando Sorrentino
http://www.fernandosorrentino.com
fersdelaakd@gmail.com

Clark M. Zlotchew
clark.zlotchew@fredonia.edu