Insides of mausoleums
i
Shapes shifted
blue (turquoise endeavored)
to the favorite bar
our constant devotion what
stumbles across them the
distant voices once heard if
hereafter recollected,
existents of a higher plane
every body talks of—
this no man’s land
a graveyard
sought for if retrogressive.

ii
Type doors
to faded sepulchers
spectraled silhouettes align with,
bundle what light makes
(ancestral, important)
in tombs
windows encase them,
cutting the distance to climb of
their paradise eternal
a squared room
contorts it.

iii
Sky’s throw
the distance that covers
closed sets of harvest
(once and for all)
if consequents of choices
stand tall to accuse of
some Other’s vision
this room stocks it while
perennial graces
alabaster
herein triumphs.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as A Long Story Short, Blaze VOX, Cavity Magazine, Don’t Submit, Experiential-Experimental Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Green Ink Poetry, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.

The Comeback

The big trucks roll in and out
all day and the gulls on the dump
don’t know them any more from St. Francis. 

There are hundreds of them 
fluttery and imperturbable
orgying on the donations
of 400,000 citizens.

Ugly on the ground
they look like overfed pigeons
with skinnier legs if that’ possible
& with heads like Edward Everett Norton 

but when they spread those long wings
there is a grace the eye does not resist.

There are so many
that it’s scary at first
but they don’t give a shit
(hopefully) about visitors,

another truck comes in
they swirl about
in their somewhat flipped out fashion
this set up being too easy

and maybe you start
feeling a little flippy too.

The garbage men get two holidays
a year which they make up
the following saturdays.

The birds have been there
for years.




Archimedes at the Wedge


two sumo size guys sitting with
the great stillness of the huge
another somewhat noisy somewhat
sizable guy with ugly hair & no definition
big lower lip many years at the beach
one other large mostly muscled
guy with the best hung-over drawl
about the tangle of the last few
days’ parties and these gentlemen
misshapen to various degrees are
deferred to by the trim and the
less seriously physical.

off at a distance families demolish
boxes of donuts. a dreamy woman
almost gets sucked to her death,
a guy with stitches shows up. one of 
the sumos has disappeared but one 
shoots across a short high left face
half his body out of the water
holding up the world.



Terminal Island 
(a fond look back) 

The sailors come from off the sea
The porno movies for to see
I take them there for a small fee
Because I am a cabbie, a cabbie.

They also go dive-hopping
And on suitcase-buying sprees.
$4.10 into town, or if you have
5 horny greeks, $4.50,

or 3 insane Bostonians,
their wives with season tickets
to arthur fiedler (whose dead,
I think), $4.30.

But I like it out there.
The driving is fast and reckless,
The air feels good.
The ships are platonic,

The ship’s whores doubly so.
The company supplies the tires,
The sea provides rumor
And inference.


Nude beach

When you come over the bluff
And look down into the cove
It looks like sand
When you get there
It turns out to be millions
Of small rocks
Which leave red marks on your ass
Which look like sunburn
From a distance

Loudmouths and quiet lookers
With salty dried-out hair
Girls with stones for eyes
& tits that are pointy
guys dive off rocks
and try to keep from being
sucked by the current
into the cave
flesh everywhere

but not a stiff prick in sight
people stand on the side and shout
to the divers
“stay on the surface”




beach at trouville 1873


the sand is behaving itself
the smoke is beautiful in the clear air dress is formal, boater for the men buss & parasol for the ladies no one is lonely or trying to get picked up

marriages have reached the here-we-are stage, the hair is dark, not grey the beach socially is just being discovered and the feeling is somewhat like a movie set 
la mer is vaguely paid attention to less than say boats on it

we are all fairly fucking cool thank you later our teeth will be pulled and freudian psychology revealed with a national twist and a slight yawn

but now it’s the morning of light the sand is being so good the heels are clicked together hard to tell shape of ass under those large skirts but the waist is a general guide the weather is perfect and it’s the most perfect day of a fairly perfect year

tahiti in tails a cole porter level of charm
there is no food and the wine is not in sight the wind is excellent
there are no numbers or letters visible (being in the picture they cannot see the artist’s signature

but if they could they wouldn’t change a thing)
of course everywhere is a seminal dream as we existing prove we’ve only lost the charm the style the clothes the light and control of the sand

INTERPRETATION

Of course,
We all could condone any vitriol 
Spilt on the rifts of the long hibernation.
The flesh seems fresh than conjoined
For those who want to believe it.
You see it banal from the space
Between your index and thumb.
The night is blank sentence,
Projected perfectly onto the medulla oblongata
Where 
The vector of light pokes the horizon
To trace the core of the cross.


HAPPY BIRTHDAY 

The top layer swanks creamy
Decorated with an arty-farty cut lemon body
Ornated and candied,
More aesthetic than functional.
Nobody knows and wouldn’t ask
If some hours ago
The acid juice splashed its hangman’s pink skin, 
Innocent,
Seeking dormant wounds
To nip.



ADVENT

I try to imagine my curbed ego,
The marking commas, the restrictive brackets.
I knew the coin’s been already thrown
For a voice which grammar has many cogent rules.
The new beginning would be inky,
Far from all those pastel-painted frames
With empty rooms fostering pastorali
In stuffed poultry hearts.
The real blood never puts artless colors on its pride.
From the chandelier fell too much of words 
Keeping silence about the profit of being mortal.
I tried to discern the salt in the wound, bugs on the face
Worn promises, Holly knowledge. 
I regret losing my taboos in remission of sins
But the new me still has time to slip into my old 
Long haired coat
Because the snappish winter is coming close.         



REVIVAL

Morning is tiptoeing over to the window
Like a cat
Descending the tree of wishes
Head first
To see all ghosts off
Too modest in their self-knitted hats
And backs heavy with the weight of the tenderness.
Interjections wait woven into the soggy day.
Lungs implore more oxygen.
Movements set a Morse code rhythm
Flirt with coffee steam 
Dance under the wind’s baton
On the garnished with fine mica flakes pavement.
From the crowd’s sleepy orbits 
Protrude huge, perplexed, yesterday‘s question- marks.



CORROSION IS IN FASHION

We are charming in ochre, scarf-styled,
Radiating that exceptional dress sense
While fall is parading its paradigms.
The warmth of gold is already proven
Out of time arguments
When the taste for art mimics the lack of logic 
In the global language.
Sometimes we wonder
If the closed societies undergo attitudinal changes.
In fact, silk on wool presents fond delusion in rainy days.
That world’s hurly-burly,
A storage of nonsense we use to feed scraggy wars
Pretending that they’re somewhere far
In order to satiate our nonchalance 
And quell any inner disturbances.
Happy hypocrites we are
If believe in the grace of the swan neck
Garlanded with luxurious plumage.
Beneath the camouflage— the wormy throat. 

We Rushed

 

to the sound of broken

water and crashing streams.

 

A thundering knock

at the door, early morning. These

are the pools we stepped in.

 

For too long I’ve spent too much

time puttering on things that just don’t

 

matter, trying to peddle my goods.

 

Time to stop applying a metric

to my faith – good, better, best –

 

Just be.

It’s enough.

            Really.



 

Gaming the System

 
Forget the trees

Outside my door a moment.

 

I was seeing the bright colors

 

Of future worlds by the time

I was ten. In the films I watched, I met

 

Cities and skyscrapers.

 

Batman saved my reading life.

 

In the video games I played, I found

The ability to hop into new worlds, and leap

 

Over unfamiliar obstacles.

 

In those days, we had to level up,

You started back at the home screen if you

 

Stopped the game. No re-spawning.

 

So, my days were spent trying to beat

A boss – then starting back at square one,

 

Over and over.


How many days, wrapped in blizzards,

Did I spend navigating a digital character

Through a video snow.



 There is Space

 
where space should be.

This poem is not about

rockets, I assure you.

 

There is a wondering

absence where there really

 

is not absence. Am I

 

an arm, a mind, an interconnected set

of thoughts and instruments

 

            moving ensemble

 

what is my motion

            my e motion

 

what is my work

            life, work life

 

the continuation, the

            meaning.

 


 

I Have Tried

 

too long to brace verdant reality,

bunching up worries into an

easy-to-follow guide,

 

warnings whispered on websites,

 

and more time, time

to linger longer in the quiet,

stillness of the waters that pass,

decorated with litter.

 

Now, I linger again in the

stillness of this time, unsure

of where the world goes from

here. Hopeful. Realistic.

 

Almost a year ago, I lay

on my back as I do today,

different purposes, new reasons,

 

lack of reason.

 

I thought of what would

be ahead, framing moments

of trust

 

in unseen figures. A constant

hope.

 

Weeks earlier, I accepted

a new path that would

come to reality.

 

I try to know myself,

thinking, reading, believing

in bright promises ahead.

 

I sought connecting

as I wait for warmer

weather.



 

Others See Me As

 
warrior

mentor

soul friend

collaborative writer

Appalachian scholar

supportive

attentive leader

one with kind eyes

 

dependable

covenant partner

educator

sincere

 

one who invited

healing.

 

I am only one person

making a way

in the world,

 

mindful of footprints,

seeking

true words and actions.

 


New Pathway



beginning of a forest,

dogs trotting ahead in the path,

 

fresh air adjusting leaves

like ornaments around me,

 

warmth of summer

years ago, remembered again

 

point of a branch, and I know

I’ll return here soon

 

again and again, and never leave

as I once did.

 

Preserving the silent world.



 

There is

 
a space where

space should be,

 

there is a wondering

absence where they really

 

is no absence. A hollow

that is filled but still echoes.

 

Am I an arm,

a mind, an interconnected set

of thoughts and instruments

 

for making syllables and other

sounds.

 

What is my motion

            my emotion

 

what is my work

            life, work-life,

 

where are those boundaries

now?

 

the continuation, the meaning,

            as days stack up.

 

I want to be a better

teacher, a voice that’s honest

 

a clear teacher of teachers.

 

 

Welcome to November’s first issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine!

First of all, we encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place at Woodstock’s Pizza in downtown Davis, CA, time TBA.

Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced the opening of our Nature Writing Contest for 2022. This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

Now for this issue, which provides glimpses behind the scenes into dreams, thoughts and processes behind the world we see every day.

In his short story “The Cubelli Lagoon,” Fernando Sorrentino probes the depths of a mysterious lake rumored to be riddled with alligators.

J.J. Campbell begins his poetic offerings with an assertion that the rest of the natural world remains more powerful than humans. He then comments on human nature, looking at everyday scenes and letting his mind wander. Emmanuel Umeji does something similar in his poetry, where the speaker stares up into the sky and reflects on life and death.

Chloe Schoenfeld describes the calm and moist atmosphere after a rainstorm.

Chimezie Ihekuna continues his Christmas countdown while Norman J. Olson contributes more of his detailed and thoughtful sketches and oil landscapes. Olson says his is “not an art of societal amelioration” yet the attention he gives to people and places in his work encourages viewers to notice their depths and regard them with respect.

Damon Hubbs explores scientific research in a slightly macabre way, with poems about the skull of dead 17th century physician Sir Thomas Browne. John Thomas Allen also touches on the mystery of death through a poem where the lines seem to wind you down to the grave. Mesfakus Salahin presents death as the poignant but inevitable end of all relationships.

In contrast, the flowers Channie Greenberg photographs are very much vibrant and alive, even when cut and displayed in a vase.

Lorraine Caputo also conveys how humans interact with and harvest from nature in her literary sketch of a large commercial banana farm in Latin America.

Daniel de Culla gives a bawdier take on nature writing, with a piece on sexy pumpkins and Halloween traditions in his native Spain.

In a different vein, Sayani Mukherjee builds a scene and a mood around a single rose in a vase in a person’s room.

J.D. DeHart presents vignettes shaped by memory, where he describes his amusement or wonder at encounters with horses, strange noises, etc along with conveying the scenes themselves.

John Steirer also draws from ordinary life as a source of grace and amusement in his series of reflections on middle age, teaching, and learning.

Strider Marcus Jones evokes the background rhythm of life even as great global struggles for power and liberation take place: seeds waiting to germinate, couples falling in and out of love, poets writing and hoping for interesting content.

Pippa Phillips and Jerome Berglund distill experience past the vignette into single thoughts and nearly subconscious observations.

Kyle Hemmings captures moments of irony, poignancy and surprise in his tiny poetic vignettes. John Culp explores his personal consciousness in a thoughtful piece.

Clive Gresswell brews up a heady mix of language and thought in his poems.

Mary Grimm evokes a dream experience with a title reflecting the nonlinearity of the narrative.

Mark Young’s artwork also eschews direct representation to focus on the effects of juxtaposing contrasting colors and visual elements.

Poet John Tustin writes elegantly of characters brought together into the same space who get driven apart or don’t end up interacting. As in Mark Young’s work, the beauty lies in the implied connections and contrasts.

Jim Meirose evokes a surreal atmosphere with a vacationing couple and their unusual tour guide at the Acropolis.

Christopher Bernard’s poem comments on people of differing income levels sharing urban space, encouraging the homeless and dispossessed to walk with the same self-assurance as the wealthy.

Olawe Opeyemi’s poem shows a speaker mourning sorrow and injustice he sees from his window.

Adepoju Timileyin’s characters also observe each other, speculating and empathizing from a distance. Sometimes they actually interact, though, as he does with his grandmother. In his final piece, Timileyin points to writing as a way to connect.

Shilpa Barti also brings together disparate artistic elements, with the effect of celebrating creative growth in nature and through literature and music.

Z.I. Mahmud also turns to literature as a subject, through his scholarly essay on the global and historical impact of Indian classics.

Jaylan Salah interviews author Joanne Harris (most famously the creator of the book that inspired the movie Chocolat) and discusses her themes of cuisine, creativity, small towns and tolerance/acceptance as well as how these themes come through in her later, darker works.

Mary Beth O’Connor, in her memoir From Junkie to Judge, illustrates how personal struggles such as addiction and abuse affect people of any class, race, personality or profession.

Awodele Habeeb touches on the social dimensions of personal struggle. He points out the inadequacy and cruelty of telling young people that education will prepare them for a better future if society does not provide avenues for them to use the skills they gain.

That sentiment is a driving force behind our New Year’s Eve gathering and choice of organizations to support. We do hope that Synchronized Chaos Magazine can play a part in opening up pathways towards allowing society to benefit from the creative gifts of all its members.

Influence of Indian Classics on World Literature

Dedicated and acknowledged to the memory of June whom I love endlessly and the repertoire of my dearest and fond mummy…

Brief Biography of the Author: Formerly Undergrad freshman English Literature Major hailing from department of English and Humanities (ENH) at Brac University. Presently of latest accord, Z I Mahmud is a fullbright Indian Council For Cultural Relations (ICCR) scholarship fellow Suborno Jayanti Scheme achiever-awardee and UG aspirant of University of Delhi’s Department of English. Z I Mahmud exalts in the glories of glamorous explorations with glowing sparks of somber sobriety lingerings in stirrings of literary criticism, literary theory and genres of narrative. 

Readers are heartily welcome in cordiality to intimate in correspondence through email: zi.mahmud@g.bracu.ac.bd   



A literary analytical essay and criticism of the postmodernist era in Indian Bengali Prose
 

The Indian Bengali prose writers and authors particularly postmodern novelists have embraced the Indian subcontinent with literature characterized by narrative techniques such as fragmentation, paradox, unreliable narrators, often unrealistic and downright impossible plots, games, parody, paranoia, dark humor and authorial self reference. Well, the purpose of the essay is to reflect the extraordinary chronicle… A tribute to the writer’s zealous and enthusiastic spirit that refuses to give up; to family love that persists in the face of desertedness, repeated depression, dismay and denial. 

A triumph… Here portrayal and foster of parental relationship with children and children’s attitude and behavior towards parents reflect to the audience that can reach across a nation’s mistakes, and offer forgiveness…. An amazing story by the distinguished novelist Chanakya Sen, whose spirit and creativity belie the unimaginably struggling and enticing endeavours in his life. “Putro Pitake” is a gift of understanding….A compelling story revealing the incarnation of love and peace and sharing of shame and pain so that others will do the same, and so awaken to themselves through exchanging letters.

What is remarkable and enlightening is how the contemporary biographical sketch in the novel describes the attachment of parenthood and children duties. The writer procrastinates in the prefatory note amidst the novel the contemporary world’s young minds blooming attempts to their fathers. In the ever changing and rapid time, fathers are failing to approve and understand their children; while the children have stepped into the perilous extinction of family connection and relationship. Thus the novelist takes an assignment while dwelling in New Delhi to prepare the manuscript of the adventurous and enchanting novel.

Today, dad, both you and I are aware of that fact that truth speaking persons are very much rare whose talks are very much limited. Confucius, declared, “it’s the duty of the children to abide by the commandments of their parents.” Even our religious scriptures denoted fathers as ‘heaven’, ‘religion’ and ‘divine or sacrilegious’; acclaimed international acknowledged establishment of empire from the ancient time.

Your struggles and endeavours are incomparable to us.. You guys have had accepted wholeheartedly and without rebellion; achieved peace and dreams.
We have questioned and despite alienating the protestations couldn’t reach further peaks. Why? Simply because you and we share a deep bond of love. We couldn’t accept your parenting; but without you our lives seem meaningless.

We understand the meaning of independence and sovereignty, would like to pursue; but failed since we aren’t truly independent and sovereign.
With those whom I have spent my four years of life are dwelling in North America. I have seen them in New York. Toronto. Having exchanging a discourse within three minutes they would proclaim crystal clear: My dad is a horrible man. I hate him. Or my mother…. Even the British people’s sons and daughters are the same with the same blasphemy attitude towards their parents. But we Indians wouldn’t ever dream of saying that I hate my parents.

I remember and feel nostalgic regarding the cigarette consumption incident that you had shared with me when I was a high school student reading in eighth standard. The writer intelligently creates dramatic colloquial linguistics in the tone and speeches hereby.

“Ketu, have you ever dreamed of eating cigarettes?”
I had said, “No.”
“Haven’t you tried a single one?”
“No.”
“Had you, isn’t it?”
“No, I dislike the smell of it.”
“If you feel interested, do tell me.”

You had thoughtfully expressed, “Sons start eating cigars secretly. They take cigars out of curiosity and many feel it as a privilege of bravado and heroism. They hide themselves while smoking because the elderly people forbid them. If you ever want to smoke, do tell and ask me. Do buy branded cigars from some good shops and share your experience of smoking.

I wanted to know when have you learnt the art of smoking.
At a very elderly stage. When I was a B.A. student, I had stick the hostel wallboard, smoking is restricted in this room. Then after finishing B.A. I had broken that ideology.

The characterization and twists in the plots delve the necessity of critical understanding as if some when some discourse and dialogues are being shared:
My study mate Ajitesh can be well in your remembrance. Last week he came from New York and visited me in Toronto; bringing with him few letters received from his father.

Sri Pranesh Kumar wrote, You have achieved education, visited abroad and having the thought of being free and independent; you’ve the full freedom and liberty of choice in your life. You aren’t understanding that this faith is very unrealistic and sinful. You are my blood and flesh; we both are equal and same but not different. The bond of family relationship should be maintained in the exactly same manner while I had the hereditary obedience towards my father; your grandfather having obedience towards your god-grandfather. 

Remember that you are the heir of Sitapur’s Dotto family; you cannot simply forget that and detach yourself from the roots. I have given you food, education, love while parenting; you have the similar duties and responsibilities towards me, as I had towards my father and my father had towards my grandfather.

Ajitesh didn’t visit his motherland since three years and he was determined not to visit this year as well and the father had taken that he would never see them for an entire life.
Ketu had been saying, “Why don’t you visit your family for once?”
“Digress, what would happen if I don’t visit?”
“You could’ve met everyone.”

“I feel reluctant to visit anyone?”…after few moments silence, “Except mother.”
“Fine, visit your mother then.”
‘Not only she has been my mother but she is my father’s wife, brothers and sisters and sister-in-laws and nephews and nieces’ mother.”

“Aren’t you going back to India?”
“What would happen if I don’t?”
“What’s the big deal in staying in America.”
“Nothing….. But I am surviving! I am having freedom and liberty in my lifestyle here.”

“What have you been doing?”
“I drink when I am thrilled. Spend nights with girlfriends. I am taking pods when I am feeling agitated.”
“However, homeland doesn’t suit all these things. I have to consume job named opium and drink poison called wife.”

“Annoying.”
“Why did you leave your native and settle here?”
“Means? Being granted a PhD certification at Columbia University. Didn’t they offer you a fellowship in PhD program?”
“Are you doing PhD?”
“Didn’t you quit?”
“You had joined marshal, isn’t it back home?”

“I had been suffering from that kind of a disease. While studying in Patna, I felt suddenly that the poor farmers' distress and dismay cannot be eradicated unless I take arms to change the recession India. Middle class Indians would never revolt; even the labourers wouldn’t because they are always in the dream of living a middle class lifestyle. I felt that the hungry and deprived farmers are capable of taking the weapons and becoming guerilla.”

We were having seminar at the English Department while suddenly the news of buildings and halls capturing by the students was spread. A girl named Rose Mary Walcot was reading the paper. Suddenly she had stopped reading and began screaming, “Crude establishments, fuck all the deans.” The class was being tutored by emeritus professorEugene Velnde. He picked all the books and gradually very swiftly moved away from the class. Many students began to gather at the Chemistry Building. I went straight to the dorm. If I had known you were there, I would definitely had had strolled the Chemistry building.

Here postmodernism has become part of our lives and entertainment concerning those words that made ourselves home with everyday language. The postmodernists are embracing disorder and taking playful approach.
“Mr. Gupto! I am Helen!”

Handshaking was over. Approaching ahead, Helen Dalton said, her husband was cooking steak, so she had to come alone, her husband is good cook though she attends most of the cooking sessions at home. Robert Dalton worked in a weapons factory and returns late evening. Helen Dalton is a nurse at the neighbourhood drug addiction rehabilitation so she visits patients homes to collect statistics over discussions. Within a second of time Mr. Gupto was enchanted and thought the woman to be mesmerizing as because of her friendly and amiable nature. The Daltons had three children: the elder girl completed 13 years named Elen, 11 years middle son George and the youngest 9 years aged Henry.

A banqueting meal scenery description highlights the incident among the family members including the paying guests couple Rostum (a Muslim) and Sumona(a Hindu)… Quoted….
“I said, School and college history lessons we had been taught that Muslims had deep fond for Hindu girls. Grabbing the girls and feeding them beef as a lesson.”

The temptation and lamentation topic touches the hearts and souls of the readers when the visitation of the Hippie Village scene can be visualized.
While I was a learner at Columbia University I often visited the Hippie Village in the dusk of the evenings. And had met and befriended a great number of these Hippies village friends and acquaintances.
Cycloidal light sand poster decorative small café restaurant few hippies were gossiping. I often went there. They sang, danced, ate pod, laughed, loved, slept while sleeping, when hungry would satisfy themselves with few pennies from their pockets whatever was available, consumed teas and coffees several times and often discussed the mysterious lifestyle of destiny; I felt intoxicated hearing those stories as if I have arrived in a far away world…NASA, Johnson, Nixon, Vietnam don’t have any connection. Similarly there is lack of unity among Columbia-Harvard, MIT-Princeton and Cornell scientists where several years after years Johnson empire and society are being established.

Especially in the 1960s the unconventional appearance, typically having long hair associated with a subculture involving a rejection of conventional values and the taking of hallucinogenic drugs. The author met his first lovely damsel and admirer here through the vivid and enticing description of the character Cathy.

“Cathy, meaning Katherine, looked opposite to Peter. Five feet five inch body and absolutely white as if bloodless. The head was full of golden hair waving her back. Two small deep eyes as if bluer than the autumn’s sky…. These lines denote personification and enlivening spirit of the writers beautiful imagery. Cathy’s hair is very whitish body reflects the golden hair waving her back as if uncommon beauty found in New York.

Contradictory and paradoxical statement shows as an exemplary one: “Robert Ashe belonged to the extremist wing of the Anti British Catholic Movement."
Prominent imprudent words and colloquial languages are abundantly used to entertain adult audiences and parents would decide whether to teach them sex education in the appropriate memorandum. “What’s the Bangla meaning of sex, dad?”

“…? I feel bad mouthed to utter that abusive word..I feel very much embarrassed. Men and women sex organs, the body’s hidden sexual organs, become the discussions in our homes and gatherings discourse. But these words are being used everyday not as Bangla but as English. We say, private parts, say penis, say breasts although know that these words have had some Bangla meanings as well as Sanskrit. Yeah, poet Joydeb and even before him epic poet Kali Das, thank goodness that they didn’t know English.

By enthralling spirit of the writer, the lyrical songs explain the philosophical Essay on Man which excited the writer saying that the followers of Pope belong to modern generation:
Pleas’d to the last, he crops the flowery flood,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh blindness to the future! Kindly giv’n,
That each may feel, the circle mark’d by Heav’n:
Who sees with equal eyes, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall.
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl’d,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world,

The 18th century English Literature amazed the kindred spirit of the writer and inspired his fascination. I had spent innumerable evenings with English professor Santosh Vataya in her neat and tidy apartment; where she had the assistance of a domestic worker do attend the household chores; her personal library had a collection of more than 2000 books; a single sleeping bed was found in the bedroom; the drawing room had a simple sofa set; discolored, tattered and torn as if some cushion of animals observed as dead skin. We had discussions regarding 18thcentury English Literature, university politics, students social and cultural issues, criticism and rumors of different teachers; and sex; at first Ms. Vataya would simply used to be much diligent in speech, listen patiently and smile lucidly, but the topic of sex would make her face deepened and she felt restless. Gradually the hesitation and irritability disappeared and she had consented me to come closer to her silently; shared few talks personally and questions regarding sex had come to her mind too. She used to love a Kashmiri Brahmin, presently a government employee, their relationship was deep, she thought that he would marry her but he didn’t; instead he had married a Kashmiri virgin and Santosh Vataya felt desperate hesitation to embrace her beauty with uplifting spirit to entice loving admirers anymore.

Susan Ford wasn’t Elizabeth Barnstein, Emily Heart; she was only exceptionally Susan Ford. I discovered her while typing my thesis assignment for M.A. examinations. She had advertised in the Columbia University students oriented daily newspaper. Telephoning her one morning finally I came to visit her studio apartment downtown in New York.

While ringing the doorbell thrice she had opened the door. She just woke up wearing a sleeping robe.
Upon staring at me, she said with a drowsiness of hand, “Oh, you are that Indian boy whom was supposed to come this morning. Come get inside. Sit there and I am coming right away.

Susan went into the bathroom. Studio apartment offers a single room with drawing, bedding, cooking, dining, and everything. I looked and found scattered stuffs .. disorganized bed, there is a table at a corner with IBM typewriter, beside expensive music system: Fisher. Around the other corner of the room there is a piano and a great number of books were laid on the cover, most of them were art and photography. Around the third corner of the house there was a curtain wrapped in a steel framed a small dark room, Susan Ford must have printed and developed the photographs film there. The wall painting were of naked Picasso and three half naked damsels. Apart from these pictures there were many posters displaying contemporary antiwar rebellion’s different scenes and two of them were arts relating to women's liberty and feminism. The wall had contained daily, weekly, monthly newspapers and magazines articles extracts and essays. The worktable had accompanied a sofa set, which looks that in terms of necessity it can be changed into a bed; a love seat. Yesterday night’s fermented foods were laid down on the dining table and plate glasses were looking as if two persons had had dinner last night. Few yards from the dining table there was cooking gas stove and another few yards utensils; wash basin sink. There was a table lamp upon the working table, a table beside the sleeping bed. 

“Your English is very nice. American students don’t write these kind of language. They write strong and lengthy sentences. Many words but less meanings. You language is simple but meaningful.”
“Welcome. Within seven days I have to submit the thesis assignment.”
“If not, then?”
“Acquiring degree would be postponed for six months. To me such a length of time would seem terrible to me.”

Susan stared at the calendar very thoughtfully calculated with a pencil that was on the table.
Said, “You would deprive my sleep for seven nights.”
I said, “I absolutely don’t want that.”

“Okay. I never like reading thesis. Your thesis essays seem fond of reading. I would do it. But, one condition. You would visit me everyday in the evenings. You would sit here. Many questions would arise in my mind. Your English has got a little weakness. This happens to foreigners. If I phone you about the questions and commentaries then it would take a long time. You would stay with me everyday for 3 to 4 hours. I would handover everything on the 7th day.”

Susan Ford didn’t shoot President Johnson, she hadn’t the wisdom and courage to attempt firing someone and murdering; but Vietnam antiwar protesting rebellion encouraged her to protest boldly. Susan was injured and brusied four times by the police and suffered three times imprisonment because of her participation in the antiwar protesting rebellion. The rebellion’s pictures had been taken by none but Susan because professional photographers were lacking.During the Chicago democratic party convention among the hundreds of people Susan tremendously shouted with them together: “The whole world is watching! The whole world is watching!!”

After enjoying the concert we had been to a serene restaurant of the 57th Street. The bill made my eyes to stare frowning forehead! Susan said, “Can I share?” I hadn’t paid heed to her words. I handed the four ten dollars note opening the wallet to the waiter.
At 11:15 pm we had arrived at Susan’s apartment.

I said to Susan, “Would you make me a coffee?”
Susain questioned, “For how long would you stay?”
I declared, “The whole night.” As well as added, “If you have n objections.”
Susan laughed a victorious laugh and said, “Most Welcome.”
I phoned my home.
You had picked up the call, Dad.

I said, “Dad, I am staying with Susan in her apartment tonight.”
You paused for a while and said, “Okay.When would you come?”
“Tomorrow Morning.”
“Okay.”
You had dropped the phone. I dialed once again and again you had picked up the phone.

“Dad, are you understanding what I am saying?”
You said, “Tonight you aren’t returning. Coming tomorrow morning.”
I said, “I am going to sleep with Susan Ford tonight, dad.”

I walked with Susan holding her hand towards the Jewish neighborhood so that the features could be understood as well as Italian, Polish, Irish and Dutch traditions and culture. Where drugs can be bought, who are the pushers; how to recognize the adulterous people on the streets, how do they trap and bewitch the male; happenings inside the massage parlour, who attend massage, which art schools showcase naked women; what happens at the harlem at night; which restaurants are buzzed by New Yorkers writers as a place of gossip for the whole night, Susan roamed around and showed me. Susan took me to “Gay Party”, where it was gatherings of homosexual personalities males, and lesbian party, where, homosexual girls get together. Both classes of people were friends of Susan; with whom I have mixed and made crystal clear regarding the doubts of homosexuality. I learned to eat Pot with Susan. Learned to be crazy and intoxicated while drinking wine. I never had appetite for drinking, one day getting drunk, I had vomited hilariously in Susan’s apartment. Susan cleaned and washed the vomit with her own hands. Bathed me, fanned my head and laid me sleeping.

Susan dislike the fact of my stay in Toronto leaving New York.We had debate since past few days.She had taken me to be deserting her. She could realize the victory of Indian parents and the defeat of her America love. She couldn’t tolerate the defeat of losing to these parents.

Kill Burn Avenue’s community was created by Susan Ford with the view of ideology. The entire house had 18 rooms; 48 boys and girls shared a communion established by Susan. Nevertheless, I was a foreigner so the communion members were sharing their talks with me wholeheartedly. Many of them had faith upon me. But few of them didn’t like me at all; they disliked the fact of my interference in their matters.

Susan told impatiently: A herd of foreign astray people’s mingling would make up your day? Not doing any job, left studies, not drinking wine and sleeping with girls, not consuming drugs. What have you been doing then?

I became hurt and said: You are aware of what I have been doing.
Susan said, “I know, because of me you are suffering this condition. You were better as adorable son ideal of parents, you could have earned your PhD degree in Columbia University by now. But you have mingled with me….

Susan’s letters arrived for the communion and dearest sweetheart lover. Susan had settled in California near the Mexico border..
I said June, “Have you come from London?”
June said, “No. From Liverpool.”
Very sweet voice. Very clear pronunciation.
“Would you read here?”

June said, “No. I am attending at University of York.”
“Freshman?”
“Sophomore.”
“What’s your subject?”
“Philosophy.”

“Then you are in the team of Mailini. Two philosopher friends would rock together.”
Robert Simson was becoming my admiration. Not only he was a sculptor, but writes poetry as well. It was decided that next week he would visit my apartment in Toronto to recite his poetry.
I said, “If June wishes, do bring her along. I cannot cook like Malini but whatever I cook never becomes distasteful.”

During the farewell she said, “I would love to”
June was being invited to a date. June said, “Let us do some work instead of it. I love cooking. I would arrange a meal preparation soon. Do you love lamb roast?Don’t you? With potatoes, beans, carrots boiled. It would be finished within an hour. Then lets visit to the movie theater. Downtown is showcasing Baryman The Silence. I love watching it. What do you say?”

June wrapped herself in an apron and I had begun assisting her.
There had been unending talks and discourse relating June’s personal life and taste of culture. She had promised that the marriage should be held in Delhi as a wedding destination. To the analytical conclusion there seems to be convention of ironic self reference and absurdity the way of manifested farewell. Hereby June bloomed a brimming full moon’s smile and the author describes with imagery and personification: “Firefly!” June has learnt few Bengali and asked the meaning of the word, “Firefly”.