The Cubelli Lagoon [La albufera de Cubelli] by Fernando Sorrentino translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth <micheletexas@hotmail.com>, <michele@mckayaynesworth.com> In the southeast region of the provincial plains of Buenos Aires, you might come across the Cubelli Lagoon, familiarly known as the “Lake of the Dancing Alligator.” This popular name is expressive and graphic, but — just as Doctor Ludwig Boitus established — it is inaccurate. In the first place, “lagoon” and “lake” are distinct hydrographic occurrences. Secondly, though the alligator — Caiman yacare (Daudin), of the Alligatoridae family — is common to America, this lagoon is not the habitat for any species of alligator. Its waters are extremely salty, and its fauna and flora are what you would expect for creatures that inhabit the sea. For this reason, it cannot be considered unusual that in this lagoon a population of approximately 130 marine crocodiles are to be found. The “marine crocodile,” that is, the Crocodilus porosus (Schneider), is the largest of all living reptiles. It commonly reaches a length of some seven meters (23 feet), weighing more than a ton. Doctor Boitus affirms having seen, along the coasts of Malaysia, several of them that were over nine meters (30 feet) in length, and, in fact, has taken and brought back photographs that supposedly prove the existence of such large individuals. But, as they were photographed in marine waters, without external points of reference, it is not possible to determine precisely if those crocodiles were truly the size attributed to them by Doctor Boitus. It would of course be absurd to doubt the word of an investigator with such a brilliant career (even though his language is rather baroque), but scientific rigor requires that the facts be validated by inflexible methods that, in this case, were not put to use. Well then, it happens that the crocodiles of the Cubelli Lagoon possess exactly the taxonomic characteristics of those that live in the waters around India, China, and Malaysia; hence, they should by all rights be called marine crocodiles or Crocodili porosi. However, there are some differences,which Doctor Boitus has divided into morphological traits and ethological traits. Among the former, the most important (or, better said, the only) is size. Whereas the marine crocodile of Asia can be up to seven meters long, the one we have in the Cubelli Lagoon scarcely reaches, in the best of cases, two meters (6 feet 6 inches), measuring from the tip of the snout to the tip of the tail. Regarding its ethology, this crocodile is “fond of musically harmonized movements” according to Boitus (or, to use the simpler term preferred by those in the town of Cubelli, “dancing”). As anyone knows, as long as crocodiles are on land, they are as harmless as a flock of pigeons. They can only hunt and kill when in the water, which is their vital element. They trap their prey between their toothy jaws, then rotate rapidly, spinning until their victim is dead; their teeth have no masticatory function, being designed exclusively to imprison and swallow a victim whole. If we go to the shores of the Cubelli Lagoon and start to play music, having previously chosen something appropriate for dancing, right away we will see that — let’s not say all — almost all the crocodiles rise out of the water and, once on land, begin to dance to the beat of the tune in question. For such anatomical and behavioral reasons, this saurian has received the name Crocodilus pusillus saltator (Boitus). Their tastes are varied and eclectic, and they do not seem to distinguish between esthetically worthy music and music of little merit. Popular tunes delight them no less than symphonic compositions for ballet. These crocodiles dance in an upright position, balancing only on their hind legs, reaching an average height of one meter, seventy centimeters (5 feet 8 inches). In order not to drag on the ground, their tails rise at an acute angle, roughly parallel to their spines. At the same time, their front limbs (which we could well call hands) follow the beat with various amusing gestures, while their yellow teeth form a wide smile, exuding enthusiasm and satisfaction. Some townspeople are not in the least attracted by the idea of dancing with crocodiles, but many others do not share this aversion. It’s a fact, every Saturday when the sun goes down they put on their party clothes and gather on the shore of the lagoon.There the Cubelli Social Club has set up everything necessary to make the evening unforgettable. Likewise, people can dine in the restaurant that has arisen not far from the dance floor. The arms of the crocodile are rather short and cannot embrace the body of their partner. The gentleman or lady dancing with the male or female crocodile that has chosen them places both hands on one of their partner’s shoulders. To achieve this, one’s arms must be stretched to the maximum at a certain distance; as the snout of a crocodile is quite pronounced, one must take the precaution of standing as far back as possible. Though disagreeable episodes have occasionally occurred (such as nasal excision, explosion of ocular globes, or decapitation), it must not be forgotten that, as their teeth may contain the remains of cadavers, the breath of this reptile is far from being attractive. According to Cubellian legend, occupying the small island in the center of the lagoon are the king and queen of the crocodiles, who it seems have never left it. They say they are each more than two centuries old and, perhaps owing to their advanced age, perhaps owing simply to whim, they have never wished to participate in the dances organized by the Social Club. The get-togethers do not last much past midnight, for at that hour the crocodiles begin to tire, and maybe to get a little bored; in addition, they feel hungry and, as their access to the restaurant is prohibited, they want to return to the water in search of food. When no more crocodiles remain on terra firma, the ladies and gentlemen go back to town, rather tired and a little sad, but with the hope that, maybe at the next dance, or perhaps at a later one, the crocodiles’ king, or the queen, or even both together, might abandon their island for a few hours and participate in the party. If this were to happen, each gentleman, though he takes care not to show it, harbors the illusion that the queen of the crocodiles will choose him for her dance partner; the same is true of all the ladies, who dream of dancing with the king. 1086 words “La albufera de Cubelli” was originally published in Cuadernos del Minotauro (edited by Valentín Pérez Venzalá), Año IV, No. 6, Madrid, 2008, pp. 117-120. The present English version was translated from a slightly modified text.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna
The Tri-angles of Christmas wishes (From me, them and you (to yourself) IF: I wish all the best in this Christmas for you, They wish all that Christmas can best offer you, then, it will not be out of place to say this to yourself: ‘’I wish me all the best Christmas can offer’’ These are the simple Tri-angle of Christmas wishes
Poetry from John Thomas Allen
The Moon Hosts
Death is a vocation.
It has abandoned silos in the North.
It is to these darkly born Areas we still travel,
bent back as St. Sebastian in sin’s queasy light.
On bored nights, funeral trains circle us.
The conductors stuff cats in their habits as penance,
and by their wise blood Charon is humbled.
By this delivery, Lazarus was brought to die
finally and struggling, giving voice
to the final Word. Death wraps eager hands
with reptile skin. It protects its children. Still
as sullied Hosts, crooked reeds bind
an ill choir, the darkness is disturbed and moons rise
in the eyes of the weak and willing.
Death is not staid, he’s fast spreading, sudden
as wildfire on a derelict’s blanket.
Death’s a ministry and the prayer books
it distributes are filled with dark braille,
a kind that could cure blindness
but can’t be seen for very long.
John Thomas Allen is a 39-year-old poet and hopes to one day camp out in the Poe Museum in Baltimore. He likes hopes the political atmosphere in the US thins out, and that experimental poetry will continue on no matter what happens.
Artwork from Channie Greenberg
Poetry from Damon Hubbs
Note: In 1840, Sir Thomas Browne’s skull was removed from the St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich when his coffin was “accidentally” disturbed by workmen. The skull wasn’t returned to lie with the rest of Browne’s earthly remains until 1922. In addition to writing “Religio Medici,” “Urne-Buriall,” and “Pseudodoxia Epidemica,” the 17th century physician and essayist is credited with coining dozens of words including medical, hallucination, electricity, exhaustion and coma.)
From the Misadventures of Sir Thomas Browne’s Skull
#1: Medical
after testing magnetic fluid with apples
tongue tied with a string
& knock
ing on the farmhouse
floorboards
in Hydesville, NY
the Fox sisters gnaw’d
the skull
of Thomas Browne
from seed husks of sunflower & Caledonian pine
communing a shadow image
assembled like the worldly goods
of a Dutch still life
14.7 cm wide
right socket cribra orbitalia,
spermaceti wedged like a fennel bulb in the left
& drip
ping with the endless mutations
of Nature.
#2: Hallucination
her eyes mention sunsets, briefly
but then she nods twice at the overcooked agave
cankering my broad lace collar & breeches
“hole in your lip,” she says & I
glance in the bar mirror at my skull
a festoon of beads & sequins, almonds
painted leaves & roses wreathed around 22 bones
that come together like a puzzle, a calavera
that upon closer inspection is missing a name
it could be me
or just another departed
soul.
#3: Electricity
I sd to the son
of the candle & soap maker
“a tenuous emanation
or continued effluvium
retracteth fire from the clouds”
whereupon the early capitalist
stood in a field
with a large handkerchief
waiting for Zeus
to jump from / the sky.
#4: Exhaustion
After
a 48 year
country ramble
I’m sitting at the Horn of Plenty
in Whitechapel
& I says, Jack
the body is open
to contemplation.
#5: Coma
doorknobs & doorjambs w/ hasps & hinges /
yellow bananas launched on blue boats / telephone game /
the benefit of planting trees in latticelike formation / snowflakes
slide softly soon / where is the square /
doors and jabs w/ hooks & hikes /
blueberries craunched on blue coats / broken telephone /
dead kingfishers do not make good weathervanes / Edinburgh /
the skin of a snake bred out of the spinal marrow of man /
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
violence in the air cast your eyes off into the ocean you can smell destruction and violence in the air there is no force on earth quite like mother nature no matter whatever any blowhard in power tends to believe ---------------------------------------------------- a lesson i was told to think of prayer as talking directly to god so i guess waiting for those prayers to be answered is a lesson in being fucking ignored ---------------------------------------------------- an appropriate goodbye i used to always fear that i would die while masturbating to the home shopping network now i wish it would happen as i think it would be an appropriate goodbye to this world ---------------------------------------------------- this beautiful cruel mistress asking questions before it's too late a hole in your new pair of pantyhose sliding into whatever the fuck dm's are anymore you're not interested in swiping and aren't exactly sure if this is something you're interested in participating in life this beautiful cruel mistress a flip of the coin hitting the jack on the river luck is only for those willing to lose ------------------------------------------------------ with their concern in mind whispers in the neon the prettiest girl in the room is chatting you up and everyone is looking on with disgust the joy of not living with their concern in mind it is a hard lesson to learn but once you do it makes life so much easier to live with no handcuffs holding you back --------------------------------------------------------- J.J. Campbell 51 Urban Ln. Brookville, OH 45309-9277 jcampb4593@aol.com https://evildelights.blogspot.com https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives went. He’s been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Jellyfish Whispers, The Rye Whiskey Review and Dumpster Fire Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Book Excerpt from Mary Beth O’Connor’s memoir From Junkie to Judge: One Woman’s Triumph Over Trauma and Addiction
CHAPTER 1
My First Shot
WHEN I GRADUATED from my New Jersey high school in 1979, I was an honor student and a junkie. I don’t mean I smoked a lot of weed or popped too many pills—I shot speed daily. Methamphetamine to
the chemist, crank in my hometown, crystal in modern terminology.
I hit a nerve in my right wrist as I injected before the ceremony. When the principal presented my diploma and shook my hand, I bit my lip to suppress the scream that surged from my belly to my throat.
Inside the leatherette cover, one note congratulated me for winning the most scholarship money, but another demanded repayment of sixty-two dollars from a candy sale, funds I had used to score a gram
of meth.
My classmates avoided eye contact when I staggered off the stage.
They giggled and prodded one another, excited to launch the next chapter in their lives. I slumped in the plastic chair, dread suffocating me as I contemplated flunking out of college. I almost failed last semester, skipping school so often, and UCLA’s gonna be so much harder.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and die of an overdose on a dorm floor. I snapped the folio shut. Jesus, is that my best option? How the fuck did I get here?
Ten months earlier, after snorting crank for three days, I had fallen into the turbulent sleep of an overdue crash. I clawed my way to consciousness, then focused on the clock radio’s fluorescent 7:08.
“Cindy,” I shouted toward my sister’s room. “Is it AM or PM?”
“Goddammit, I’m sleeping. Because it’s morning.”
I threw off the sheets, struggled to a sitting position, and waited for the dizziness to subside. As I stood, I planted my hand on the bed for balance. Trudging to my mirror, I examined the dark roots setting off my Nice ’n Easy blond hair. Smeared mascara framed bloodshot eyes above sunken cheeks. I held up my hand and watched it shake.
Shit! I look like that old drunk at the Silver Fox who spends her days chained to a barstool.
I shuffled to the refrigerator and grappled with the Pepsi tab before I collapsed on the sofa and lit a cigarette. Like every other morning, I snatched my purse from the Formica coffee table and dug for my drug kit. No crank. Just a few black beauties. Warm tears spurted down my cold face. It’s okay, it’s okay. You have the beauties.
Weaker than meth, but at least these pills delivered an amphetamine high. Should I break them open, discard the time-release ebony granules, and snort the powder for a more intense rush? My nostrils ached from overuse, so I swallowed two.
As I waited for the energy burst, I smacked my cheeks. Pull it together. You need meth. This early, Bubba’s your best bet. If you look trashed, he’ll send you home.
I spent the next hour constructing Mary Beth. Shower, blow out, hot rollers, another black beauty, frosted blue eye shadow, maroon shorts, and a breast-enhancing halter top. Scrutinizing my image again, I straightened my shoulders, tossed my hair, and practiced a laugh. Relief! A façade sufficient to hide the depths of my deterioration. I drove my brown ’73 Valiant to Bordentown’s four block city center.
High school dropout Bubba worked as a midlevel drug dealer. At twenty, he still lived with his parents in a narrow row house. I exchanged pleasantries with his mom as she spread her famous ham salad on Wonder Bread. “Help yourself to a sandwich if you get hungry later.”
Bubba beckoned me over and we walked a couple blocks to spend the day with Matt. His wife at work, the unemployed truck driver provided a safe haven in a tacit exchange for drugs. Proud of his chiseled body, Matt would use speed and then spend hours weight lifting.
As we approached the two-story brick apartment building, Bubba tugged at his loose pants. Naturally plump, too much crank and too little food had reduced his waistline. “Mary Beth, if I’m not careful, I’ll be crazy skinny like you.” “Hey, I put on a couple of pounds.” “Hmm, I’ve never seen a collarbone stick out like yours.”
Mary Beth O’Connor’s memoir From Junkie to Judge is available here.
This excerpt is from Mary Beth O’Connor’s new book, “From Junkie to Judge: One Woman’s Triumph Over Trauma and Addiction.” Reprinted with permission from Health Communications, Inc.
Mary Beth O’Connor has been sober since 1994. She has also been in recovery from abuse, trauma, and anxiety. Six years into her recovery, Mary Beth attended Berkeley Law. She worked at a large firm, then litigated class actions for the federal government. In 2014, she was appointed a federal administrative law judge, which position she held until 2020. Mary Beth is a director, secretary, and founding investor for She Recovers Foundation and a director for LifeRing Secular Recovery. She regularly speaks about multiple paths to recovery, to groups such as Women for Sobriety. Mary Beth’s op-ed, “I Beat Addiction Without God,” where she described combining ideas from several secular programs to create a robust recovery foundation, appeared in the Wall Street Journal.