Deception 10

Until the right man or woman comes, will I become sexually faithful?

By deduction, you are presently exploring your sexual prowess with different individuals. In other words, you are obviously an infidel. Sexually, are you going to be faithful to your Mr. or Mrs. Right in the making? Time will reveal the answer.

In fact, the issue of Mr. or Mrs. Right is being approached by young men and women by a vague selection of ladies and men they have slept with. In other words, people choose the ones they intend spending the rest of their lives with on the grounds of sexual interaction-probably on the best of competent individuals they have slept with.  We must, in concrete terms, based on this context, define the terms “Mr. Right”. Mr. Right is that man who practically believes in chastity and self-control instead of promiscuity while Mrs. Right is the woman who demonstrates a chaste disposition and is never willing to let go of her body to gratify her admirers’ flirtatious desires in the name of a deceptive life-long union.      

Given those definitions, it is anticipated that individuals portray a chaste attitude rather than sexually around while awaiting their so-called Mr. and Mrs. Rights. As an employer, the vacancies you place on bill boards, newspapers and other media outfits job offers instructing interested applicants or prospective employees to come with necessary requirements for interested applicants because you have what it takes to fully employ their services.  Similarly in wanting to get a chaste woman or a man with self-control, it is expected of you to be self-controlling or chaste. Unfortunately, it is the other way round- people want chaste woman or men of great self-control without possessing these qualities.

If you influence people with promiscuity, how do you intend on getting your Mr. or Mrs. Right? You are like the employer not having what it takes to be one. In the first place, what makes you think that your right man or woman will come to you, given your not-chaste behavior?

When do you think your Mr. or Mrs. Right will come? Do you think the people you slept with are not the so called Mr. or Mrs. Rights?

To an extent, people who are sexually unfaithful have unknowingly been seen as sex objects. Hence, they become “used and dumped” by their partners. Simply, they are “replaced” by other believed-to-be-better individuals by breaking up or demise, separation and even divorce.  Eventually, these imbalances become eminent.

Don’t you think it is more upright to be chaste and self-controlling, preparing you for your Mr. or Mrs. Right than depriving people their sexual worth by displaying promiscuity, vaguely pointing the possibility of meeting your Mr. or Mrs. Right, denying people the worth of chastity and respect?

A School Mix

1.

Mary Jane Blalock taught me Algebra I. She had Mediterranean skin and jet black hair that she wore shoulder length. The ends curled up toward heaven.

One Monday she didn’t come to school. Mr. Guin, an old man who kept bricks in his back pocket to help him from falling forward, was her substitute. His hair was white. His skin was white. There was a lot of dandruff on his black coat and tie.

It was a crucial time in algebra. Seems that every day in algebra is crucial. Such a linear discipline. Don’t go to Square 2 until you understand Square 1.  Factoring polynomials. Anyway, we were stuck with Mr. Guin for a while.

I listened to what he had to say about the topic. He seemed to know his stuff. Even though my classmates were rude, he ignored it, as if it hadn’t happened. Maybe he’d seen a lot of action in foreign conflict and nothing bothered him. Maybe he just didn’t care about anything. But for some strange reason, I picked up on factoring polynomials and aced the test. When Janet Blalock returned, she gave me an innocent kiss of the cheek.

2.

Mrs. Schmidt, the art teacher, was having an affair with Mr. Jennings, the assistant principal. Everyone knew it and gave them their privacy. Their cars took bay at opposite ends of the faculty parking lot an hour before the first bell.

I made a bet with my friends that I could manage to secure videos or pictures of them doing whatever it was that they did two mornings a week. My key to the school (another story) finally had a purpose. The schematics of the buildings allowed me to guess where they might have their nest. Afraid to breathe, I hid and waited close to their makeshift bed.

There was fondling and giggling; partial undressing and penetration. Shelves rattled; glass jars broke on the linoleum. I forgot to take pictures.

3.

Mr. Ruffin was in love with the student teacher. We could tell by his latest poetry that he read aloud every Friday. We felt bad for his wife, and for Marsha, that he was behaving so badly. But who were we to confront an adult?

When my father died in January, Paul Ruffin and Marsha came into my bedroom where I was lying on my bed, avoiding the crowd of people in the house who’d dropped by to pay their respect and bring fried chicken and casseroles.

“Here,” he said, handing me a book of poetry. “This might not help. I wanted you to know that we are thinking about you. You should write about your feelings when the dust settles.  You might find some inspiration in this book.” Marsha grabbed my hand and squeezed.

“Thanks,” I said.  “Are you in it?”

“Yes, page 47.” He patted my leg and said not to worry about my school work. “Marsha can tutor you to help you catch up. She’s really good at that.”

“Ode to Drosophila melanogaster”

She had a difficult time finding the white-eyed

male under the microscope, and the red-eyed

female. I rearranged the scope for her and 

found it every time. “Here it is,” I said.

“Damn fruitfly!” she said under her breath.

I hear the diesel burps of yellow dogs

on the other side of red bricks. “You’ll miss

your bus,” I said. “One more time,” she

begged. I checked the focus once again, and

there he was, brilliant plumage, two globe-like

compound eyes, red like the sun setting before

a hot summer storm. She placed her palms

on the black lab table, slung her pony tail

to the side of her neck. “I SEE IT!” she

shrieked. “It’s so beautiful. I gotta take a

picture, Mister, somehow, please. The bell

rang and I had to send her out into the rain.

School buses don’t wait forever.

“While Australia Burns”

1.

Widespread panic, hot hot planet on fire.

One billion animals charred, burned – the silent

outrage, people dying, homes as kindling for a do-nothing

Oz sleeping on the job while oxygen supplies deplete themselves,

while freakazoid doxology fills up the smoky heavens; while fat tongues

vibrate lost hearts and souls; while the status quo is honored and worshiped

like Baby Jesus. You tell me not to worry, that these things happen;

natural phenomena; a catastrophe that doesn’t involve us.

It’s on the other side of the planet, right?

2.

I never bought the bill of sale that Gary Pounders

tried to deliver in mechanical drawing class. He tried to steal

my mathematical calculations, my format, and called me

Squarehead and Tree-lover. I stepped right up to the plate

on that one, and hit a high pop fly that flew over the river,

over the ocean, landing on the other side of the planet.

3.

Wouldn’t line up with the fire and brimstone spewing

from the pastor’s mouth, the End Times are here, unfolding right before

our bloody eyes. Waiting since childhood, when I first learned to read,

when teachers told the truth and said that boys should never cry; waiting

on confirmation that my foundation was sturdy and reliable.

4.

I tell you not to worry about these things, that it’s merely a predicament

of breathlessness, of uncharted territory, of excessive disregard of what the trees

were telling me long before we cut them down in order to count their rings. 

“Eating Paul and Getting Yoko Ono’s Drink by Mistake”

1.

I ate Paul with meatloaf today. Yoko

Ono drove by the window in a pink-and-white

Studebaker, ran the red light on the corner

as if it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there yesterday

so maybe it wasn’t there today, just something

my mind did to me.  I told him that his beard

looked good and mentioned how neatly he’d

kept it up

2.

since the last time I ate him in the German

restaurant, the one that was closed because

the owners refused to pay their taxes. The

brats were half the size they should have been

but no one complained. It’s not natural to hear

an oompah band crank up in the middle

of the day. Large numbers of Germans

make me

3.

nervous.

The Starbucks barista mixed up my order

with something that looked like a dead wren

in the bottom of some tar. My coffee was too

simple – a grande Americain with whole milk –

so I think my drink was for Yoko. That sounds

like something she’d order.

“Cold Storage”

While you are shoveling snow, I am up to my ears in wishful thinking. Traded day-trip to the

mountains for becoming one with the refrigerator. I find my childhood on the first shelf, the stuff that really matters. Latest left-overs, some sort of surprise that everyone fights over: banana pudding, Hawaiian pizza, cold turkey.

Inside its bowels, the filthy blood smudges from a leaky steak on a glass shelf, cottage cheese containers full of the most beautiful mold – dark gray fuzz with hints of lavender, and the oddest shade of blue. Bacon that’s in the preliminary stages of breaking down, rotting but ever so slightly; three craft beers, and part of a colossal green salad. There’s Kikkoman soy sauce, some left-over Yum-yum shrimp in a small white take-out; batter from unpoured pancakes, five brown free-range eggs, grape jelly, and all of the ingredients to make some damn-fine Bloody Marys.

I discover unimaginable things, unlike tuna salad and left-over vegetable casserole, pickled beets

perhaps? Ancient vials of pasty, caramelized substances. The vegetable bins, speckled and hard-crusted bottoms, dried juices from any combination of green thing and nerve. Meats, both raw and cooked, stare up at me like tumors. I want to kick them in the shins, move them out of here, warn them of pending doom, dark and mysterious. There’e a quart jar of mayonnaise with an expired date, two bottles of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, a half-full package of Kraft American singles, and a dozen hearts.

There’s no compromise for what you keep, what you discard, what you treasure and hoard; what you give away to someone in need; what ends up being your favorite thing on the list. House all of it in cold storage, use it judiciously, timely, and as wisely as you know how.

John Dorroh spends time digging in the soil. He travels as often as possible and discovers fodder for poems and short fiction.  His poetry has appeared in about 75 journals, including Dime Show Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Ospressan, Selcouth Station, and Synchronized Chaos. 

Italian Historical Film Archive/ UNESCO Italian Friends of the Bibliotheca Alexandrina presented a homage to famed director Federico Fellini on January 19th at Hollywood’s Ruby Theater on what would have been Fellini’s 100th birthday.

At this event, Fellini’s last muse, actor and director Count Federico Wardal, screened for the first time his 2020 movie “Federico and Fellini” that reveals the details of the intense and unusual friendship between Federico Fellini and Count Federico Wardal. They met for the first time in Rome at Cinecittà in April of 1975. Fellini was 55 years old and Wardal, 16 years old.

The connection between them was strong despite the significant difference in age and background. Fellini’s youth had been influenced by the devastating misery generated by the Second World War, and Wardal’s youth, on the contrary, by the economic boom and the sexual revolution of the 70s. Fellini had worked to reach economic well-being and the full freedom to express himself artistically and Wardal had taken advantage of the permissive customs prevailing in his time. He left his family at the age of 14 and performed for large audiences, first as an eccentric singer-character who broke the traditional expectations for the bourgeois middle class at the time and then as an interpreter of the theater of the absurd acting roles from leading playwrights Borchert, Becket, Pirandello, Genet, Mrozek and a great leader of the Soviet theater, Vladimir Mayakovsky. Fellini in 1975 was already a living legend and one of the most spectacular icons for Wardal’s generation.

Fellini was drawn in, not only by the spectacular and attractive appearance of Wardal, but also by his personality that knew no barriers to artistic freedom in every area of life. Fellini’s entourage was beginning to age, while Wardal was totally ahead of his time, a volcano of creativity, and this aspect interested Fellini very much. For Wardal, Fellini was the great magical father, living his dream and immersed in the art he aimed to create. These are the main elements that drove the deep partnership between Fellini and Wardal.  

Fellini entrusted Wardal with the symbolic role of the adolescent Casanova in his film by that name. But a shocking event which had never happened in the history of cinema took place:  a high percentage of the footage of the film Casanova was stolen, including the scenes with Wardal and a short recited monologue by him.  For economic reasons, Fellini was forced to change the script of the film.  Fellini invited Wardal to recite some scenes of his role again, but, in the meantime, a strong depression had grabbed the young Wardal, who gradually disappeared from his mentor Fellini who in vain called him back for his films The City of Women and Rehearsals of the Orchestra.  This great broken friendship was, however, destined to resume its journey and here we stop, so as not to reveal the plot of the film Federico e Fellini presented in Hollywood.

But in Hollywood, during the screening of “Federico and Fellini” there was
an amazing surprise: at the 22nd minute of the screening, Wardal came out from behind the screen and performed Federico Fellini’s role live. This totally broke the ‘fourth wall’ and shattered the imaginary and dreamy dimension of the film, making it seem to the audience that the ghost of Fellini materialized on the day of his 100th birthday. Jennifer Glee, the creator of San Francisco’s local TV program Planet Glee and a multifaceted artist, intentionally kept secret the surprise of the live performance during the screening.

Hollywood’s Fellini 100 event gave in that way new life to the legend of Fellini, imprinted in the Walk of Fame and in the Wax Museum. Federico and Fellini is one of five episodes of film entitled La vita che fu Dolce ( The life that was sweet) written by Gabriele Luca Fava. The eminent Italian film critic Graziano Marraffa wrote about Wardal’s movie on December 27th, 2019: “Fellini and the alter ego, a game of mirrors …..in reality, the author Fellini has often had the need to express himself as an individual and an artist by seeking an alter ego in some of his interpreters to create new meta-narrative characters…. Now the internal and public confrontation between the last Fellini muse Federico Wardal and the director Federico Fellini, is represented in a filmic story implemented by a live performance that stratifies and diversifies the various narrative plans, analyzing the reflection on a reality that has become myth, on an unchangeable actuality: “THE SCREEN IS EMPTY”, long live Fellini!”

Marraffa continues: “The spiritual and professional alchemy between the two “Federicos” took place in 1975, during the preparation of the film IL CASANOVA DI FEDERICO FELLINI. Fellini says: “I made up my mind to tell the story of Casanova, a man who was never born, a funeral puppet without personal ideas, feelings, points of view;  an unreal Italian imprisoned in the mother’s womb… The unexpected and dazzling meeting with the actor Federico Wardal in the offices of the production company P.E.A., suggested to the Maestro the idea to entrust him with the role of the adolescent Casanova, but a short distance from the filming carried out…the theft of various original negative rolls on film in the Technicolor laboratory of development and printing in Rome. The mystery was not immediately cleared up, however the author’s attempt to re-shoot the scenes starring Wardal was in vain. If it is true that nothing happens by chance, can it be considered that the non-inclusion of this part of the work should be considered consistent with Fellini’s initial sentiment?”

The circumstances around the Fellini-Wardal friendship were so intriguing that now Susanna Mitchell Egan, a well-known UK writer, is writing a book about it. A submerged Fellini emerges from all this. Wardal says: “An unfinished work of art is an eternal drama.  A finished work of art only comes to life when someone remembers it … ” So both Fellini and Wardal wanted to leave their work unfinished, as an “empty screen” that desperately wants to come alive.  

As Jennifer Glee remembers in her presentation about the Hollywood tribute to Fellini, Mario Fratti, the famous Italian American playwright and author of the musical Nine, about Fellini’s movie 8 1/2, decorated with five Tony awards, told Wardal to reveal his story with Fellini because it is irresistible.  Finally, on January 19th, 2020,  after 45 years, that story came to life again.

The Fellini tribute will tour many countries. The event’s poster of the two F’s (Federico Fellini, Federico Wardal) was created by the well-known designer Armando Milani. The movie had the cooperation of Antonello Altamura and Javan Jiles.

View the performance and Wardal’s surprise live appearance here.

Graziano Marraffa’s review of the film.

L.A. Weekly’s description of the Fellini centennial tribute

The river people.

bodies

like a dried up orange peel.

bodies like breadcrumbs

on benches for pigeons.

it’s summer – they really do

look good. relaxed,

they hang about

next to the river. they

have nowhere

to be.

you could be jealous.

you could be.

walking in shoes

which dig at your ankles

and a new shirt

and a lanyard. bodies

like full crisp packets.

bodies

like empty beer bottles.

People in old situations

by 11, of course,

we were all a little drunk,

but they were

not as drunk as I was. impatient

with the favour of their company,

they rolled their eyes and frowned at me

while I yelled things to the table in enthusiasm,

like a precocious stupid child

allowed up past bedtime. this

was our reunion in winter –

a tradition every year

of friends flown home through christmas

to meet at a bar again,

and slipping very quickly

back to our old situations;

fallon the sharp didactic, baker clever,

gerry stupid and loud

and aodhain’s barks so passionate

they made dull subjects interesting.

and of course, I lost my cool,

silly as a kitten

misjudging its footsteps. giggly

and very embarrassing.

long-dormant insecurities, blunt attempts

at wit, a kid on a doorstep

holding cheap flowers

accepted from politeness by a girl.

all joy – it was spectacular.

I threw out my arms

like a diver, and flopped

so perfectly backwards.

Turkey soup.

when we’re done eating

my father gathers up bones.

each year

for one day

he developes an interest

in cookery. he knows

how to make

turkey soup

and takes pride in it.

his use of leftovers,

every part of the buffalo.

my mother watches.

we all watch.

he lowers the carcass

to the pot and adds water, gentle

as a priest

acting baptism. we’ve eaten

our fill, but nothing

must be wasted, he explains

as he scrapes down

some grease

from the plate

and fiddles about

with the tinfoil. if he could

he’d take gristle

from the sideboard, the knucklebones

out of our hands. we are sitting,

still in the hot fug

of appetite, a winish haze

and dogs

under the table, snapping for scraps

and frightened by the crackle

of christmas crackers.

he does it all

and then comes back to us,

sits down. it will simmer

overnight

and boil for days on end. the flavour

lasting weeks

going january

sour.

The basket.

a supermarket; light

in an antiseptic style.

salted redness

gleaming on apples

and tins of tuna. restless,

I open egg cartons;

inspect them for cracks

and make sure that none

have been stolen.

someone pushes a mop

on a spilled stain

of ketchup. teenagers

look nervous

and buy the cheapest wine.

someone goes by

with a basket of groceries.

the doors slide open;

they welcome the evening in.

The proposal.

we drink together

in her tired

and line-eyed apartment.

the housemate is away

and the light

all white on walls

the colour of paint

done cheap by the landlord

and only to photograph

better in listings.

the curtains

are grubby.

I push them aside. the sofa

collapses

like a man without exercise,

sagging at the guts

and the thin bone of armrests.

I look out her window

and take another sip,

ask quietly “how long

do you really want

to live here?”

in my pocket

the wire on a spare key glitters

with nervous hope

and the optimism of an unworn

engagement ring.

---

DS Maolalai has been nominated four times for Best of the Net and three times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019)

The Temple of Dawn

You are speaking today

People call you Wat Arun Rajawarana

Look like the same built in 2^nd reign of Chakkri Dynasty

The river Chao Phraya, the most resilient and silent witness of you

Standing just on the west

Thousands of people come every day from any part of the world Visit your excellence

They see you, read you, love you and enjoy the beauty of you

You bear the glorious sight as if it were the wonder of the earth

How gorgeous the art, how fascinating the work

We, the people can’t but charm

The gods inside and beside symbolizes the heart so respectful

In the temple beside you, many come to bow down to the gods

And take mercy from Bhikku

Some are busy to eat and buy

How high you are!

How high the mind the people bears!

I lost myself for a while where I am!

I think and walk around

Suddenly one called me, ‘Excuse me’.

Bangkok, Thailand

27/09/2018

Grand Palace

This is the Grand Palace where the king lives

The temples and memorials so busy and religious

Loved by all, live in honor

It’s your palace; thousands of people built this and that

Within 1782-1785 time-limit 

The rocks and metals brought from various countries of the world

 Now many tourists daily come and visit

They read and see the myth

O the king of Thailand, you live in the palace where I not

The palace where I live larger than you

Do you know the name of the palace?

You do have also

You can see your own

I can see my own

‘Heart’, unseen but vast in region

Decorated with so much flowers and fragrance

That can cross the border easily visible or invisible

Made of mud but reach the world of stars or beyond

Then we both live in the same palace.

Bangkok, Thailand

30/09/2018

The Orchids

I reached the world of flowers

Here and there everywhere flowers and flowers

So nicely arranged that make any one charmed

The shrubs and cactus, over the head, the shade of love

Welcome us as you love and love

I wandered and sat, took water and coffee

With so many snaps I came back

Open my sights and vividly you seem to appear

What a nice experience I got!

It’s my adventure in mind live for long

When I’d be no longer here you’ll speak with me

With glorious sights and scent of the orchids

Bangkok, Thailand

30/09/2018

The Nongnooch Garden and Resort

So many flowers, so many cactuses and cactus families,

So many elephants, such colorful leaves

I can’t describe all but the world we deserve

It scents the love desired in heart

Love for you and the earth

New brand of vehicles and the welcome moods of the elephants

I got lost in thought

Tiger plays the role of a cat not to devour

The sights and seen make one’s mind always refreshed

And there is a nice environment for lunch

With the silent beauty of the garden and the pond

There may be chirping sound of birds in the silent charm

Can enjoy the theater and the elephant show with much interest

The theater shows the culture of the people

And how obedient the elephants!

You will ever be in mind

O Nongnooch Garden!

O Garden in my heart.

Bangkok, Thailand

25/09/2018

At My Balcony Sight

This is my balcony, my little world

A new sight still to observe

The two little cats surrounded by shreds and leaves

Lying together lost by their own

Not only a sight, a philosophy, a guide to me

What a peaceful moment they pass!

How deep they fall in themselves!

Touching warmth, a love to live

I see and see

Revolves my heart to lie by you

Want to sleep so sound, intoxicated

O love, please —–

Tears roll down from my cheeks

Why don’t we keep away the turmoil fights within?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

19/11/2018

The Girl From Copenhagen by Glenn Peterson is a memoir of his mother, Inge. This memoir is very interesting and is a first hand account of when Hitler occupied Denmark and her life during WWII. She was born and grew up on her father’s farm in Denmark along with her siblings. She went to nursing school but had to give up her nursing career when she began experiencing severe edema in her ankles. She then went on to become a bookkeeper at the largest ship builder in Denmark. She met Bob Peterson at a dance in Copenhagen. After only a short time she left her life in Denmark and set off to America to marry Bob Peterson. This is the story of a small family living frugally, but very happy. This memoir will keep the reader interested from the first to the last page. I personally, found her account of life during WWII extremely interesting. This would be a perfect gift for someone you know who loves historical books or for your own home library.

Glenn Peterson’s The Girl from Copenhagen is available here.

The Spitting Post by Jason R. Barden is a fantasy filled with more twists and turns that will really keep the reader on their toes. When you think you have it figured out another twist pops up to keep you intrigued and wanting more. The Spitting Post is about an insurance adjuster named Vincent Carpenter whose ten year marriage has crumbled. When his wife takes off to meet her lover, he decides to follow her. A car careens out of control coming at him. When he comes to, he does not remember his name or what has happened. He finds himself in a bizarre place. Then his nightmarish journey begins. He comes across a beautiful woman he knows as the Green Maiden. Then in order to find her he must go through terrors and nightmares to try to reach her. If you love bizarre fantasies that will intrigue your imagination and keep you guessing. This is the book for you. I loved it and found it hard to put down until the end.

Jason R. Barden’s The Spitting Post is available here.

SeaCity Rising by Elika Ansari is a wonderfully, delightful book about the lives of sea creatures that live in a pond in a city called Sea City. An old turtle is the King who has a daughter named Princess Dolores and also raising his niece Lenore. Babak is a timid little frog, the only one in the pond. Dr. Goldberg is a goldfish and a genius that is always inventing all kinds of things.

One day Babak takes a walk and walks a bit too far to the Dark End, the SeaCity dump. He finds a piece of paper with a dire warning written on it. Some of it is written in Dot, the language of the water Deities. Babak decides he should take it straight to the King. The King decides that he should send someone to look for the Old Woman beyond the sea for answers. Since most of the SeaCitians cannot live on dry land Lenore, Babak and Dr. Goldberg, the goldfish is selected. Dr, Goldberg invents a kind of bowl that allows him to move about on dry land.

While they rest, Babak discovers Princess Dolores has come along to be with Lenore. They meet many delightful land creatures on their adventure. This is not only a cute book for children but also contains a message of the importance of taking care of the earth and forests. Young children and elementary age will enjoy the story of these sea creatures and their adventures. I absolutely loved it.

Elika Ansari’s Seacity Rising is available here.

About Elika Ansari:

Elika Ansari is a writer, social scientist and humanitarian professional. She currently works in what has been recently described as ‘the world’s worst refugee camp’ in Greece, and as such she has had the (mis)fortune of hearing many touching stories about hardship and perseverance. She tries to focus her writing on globally relevant issues with the hope of one day making a difference through the stroke of the pen (or click of the keyboard), however small that may be. She loves writing anything from essays and articles to children’s fiction, and she does not shy away from the occasional rants about society’s downfalls. Ansari has published 100+ reviews, articles and short stories, and her debut children’s book, ‘Seacity Rising: A Tale of Unwatery Adventures’ is due to be published on June 6th, 2019 by Black Rose Writing.

Welcome to the New Year! In this issue of Synchronized Chaos, we focus on the continual journey of co-evolution.

Elizabeth Hughes reviews Robert Cohen’s If God Allows, a novel where an American ‘party boy’ and advertising executive adapts to the restrictions and possibilities of life in Jakarta.

John Middlebrook’s poems also illustrate adaptation, how people and stories evolve over time. People figure out how to handle changing physical and economic conditions as what was once real life fades and expands into misty legend, and modern people lament how their own leaders never quite live up to the ideals of yesteryear carved into stone.

Gregorio Stephens’ piece on working at a Bob Marley festival also points out hypocrisy, highlighting the difference between honoring an inspirational leader and using his memory only to benefit oneself. To him, the slide away from ideals represents adaptation in a negative sense.

In Henry Bladon’s poem, characters draw on the language of others to both reveal what they want to say and to conceal what they can’t, or won’t, communicate. He shows how we can adapt words and concepts to our needs, but also the dangers of letting formal language get in the way of honesty.

Daniel DeCulla sends us mixed media artwork exploring our complex and mutually co-evolving relationship with nature. Some of his images suggest anthropomorphizing nature, while others reflect being reclaimed by it.

Jeongeui’s newest artwork conveys how she appreciates beauty in nature while hoping for human love and the beauty of being in a romantic relationship.

Mahbub’s poems also celebrate the psychological renewal, connection and rest we can find in both natural environments while on vacation and in steady romantic relationships.

Abigail George’s poems reflect the search and longing for romantic love as well: the relationship that never quite happened despite many commonalities, the questions over whether one is too complicated to be loved.

More pragmatic in intention, Chimezie Ihekuna’s monthly relationship advice piece urges married people to move with the current into a new season of life, focusing their energies and time on being spouses to each other.

In Mark Young’s poems, rather than focusing on individual relationships and psyches, we step back and look at both historical incidents and modern technologies from a broader perspective. What would have happened if one person had done things slightly differently? What will future excavators surmise about the purpose of our artifacts?

In J.J. Campbell’s poetry, ‘it is what it is.’ There may not be any overarching narrative, personal or even cultural. Events happen, seemingly without reason, and people are adrift and alone in the world. We seem to lurch into nothingness, yet while never quite giving up on the search for meaning and love.

In Jeff Bagato’s poetry, speakers resist oblivion in various ways: creating digital identities, building objects as a distraction, even lashing together sticks to form a raft in a rushing current.

Donna Dallas’ poetic narrators are souls on the edge between night/day, life/death, the land/the ocean. As with Jeff Bagato’s speakers, Dallas’ characters go to great psychological and physical lengths to assert their existence as they move from one phase of life to another.

The contributors to this month’s issue join with this publication’s editors in raising our voices, using our words and pictures and minds to take part in natural and cultural co-evolution. And we invite you as a reader to join all of us in our journeys.

FYI: Our co-editor, Kahlil Crawford, is designing a special issue for this February with a theme of ‘Philosophy.’ You’re still welcome to submit whatever work you would like, just think and mention, if possible, how it relates to philosophy of any sort.