In the Middle of Nowhere

Deeply eroded and worn looking landscape continually passed me by. Driving along
Highway 10 in the middle of Texas I thought, “Why does anyone live here?” Occasional areas of low rolling hills dotted with scrub brush, and a few oak trees dotted the horizon. Herds of cattle that moseyed across it over the past year, trampled the crisp, dry straw colored grass into a mat, The sky, a deep blue right down to the horizon, indicated an absence of any significant air polluting population.

I headed west, after visiting my brother in Austin, to meet up with Zelda, a woman in
California. I met her in Chicago some months ago. She was alluring and beautiful,
managing to draw me into her life like metal to a magnet. We quickly connected that
night at a friend’s party, and have kept in touch ever since. The pull was just to much
for me, and I had to see her again.

I cruised west at a nice 60 mph in my white 1969 Toyota Corona. I bought the car
several years earlier after noticing it in the window of a motorcycle shop. There were
very few Toyota dealerships back then, as it was just the beginning of the great
Japanese car onslaught to envelope America. When I first saw the car, I was smitten
with it. The fit and finish were excellent, and it had an economic four cylinder engine
with four on the floor, and an AM/FM radio, all for less than $1,600.00. It was half of
what I would have paid for a small American car at the time. The car was unique on
the road, and people often stopped me to inquire about it. Even driving down the
freeway, cars slowed as they passed guessing at what it was. However, I did have to
endure the occasional joke about where I inserted the key to wind it up, or how many
clowns came with it.

A couple years after I bought it, I got into a small accident. The repair shop had
difficulty obtaining parts, and it took a long time to get it repaired. After a lengthy wait,
the car looked as good as new, and ran well. I had no hesitations about taking it
across country.

Driving through Texas hill country, my thoughts wandered from topic to topic, when
suddenly I heard a pop, and felt a slight lurch. A red light appeared on the dashboard
indicating a problem with the oil. The engine became noisy and I noticed white smoke
from behind the trunk. I quickly slowed and pulled off to the side of the road. I got out
and moved to the front of the hood, popping it open with a flick of the lever just
beneath the hood by the upper grill plate. Steam and white smoke poured from the
engine. Waving my hands to clear away the mist, I eventually exposed the engine
compartment. There was the sound of a hiss, but I did not see anything in the
compartment itself. However, as I gazed down between the wheel weld and engine, I
noticed a small pool of dark fluid on the ground below.

I scrunched down on my knees and bent to get a better look beneath the engine.
Steam vented from the oil filter housing, and oil continued to slowly drip from a crack in
the housing itself. I could not understand why this happened at this moment, as I had
not hit anything on the road that might have damaged the filter mechanism. After a
few moments of exasperation, it dawned on me that a small crack or weakness may
have developed when I had my earlier accident, and the repair shop did not pick it up.
The heat and prolonged compression of my long travel must have caused the crack to
expand and open up, releasing the oil.

I stood up, and gazed both directions down the highway. Except for the occasional
rare whoosh of a passing car, dead silence reigned. There was no wind, and the sun
beat down hard on everything around me. A fly landed on my sweaty brow, and I beat
it off with a quick swipe of my hand. It smelled of herbs, dry grass, and engine oil.
“Now what the fuck do I do?” There was no urban environment to be seen. Low hills
blocked distant views in every direction. “Okay, then,” I told myself in a determined
manner. I locked the car, stood between it and the road, and stuck out my thumb,
hoping someone would see that I was in distress and needed assistance.
Fifteen minutes passed with no bites. People passed me by as if I were just another
advertising sign along the freeway. I figured it might be my long hair and the peace
sticker on the window of my car that put people off. After all, I was in pretty
conservative country. Except for the liberals in Austin, much of the population was
pro-war, and I had nothing to identify myself as a Vietnam Veteran.

Finally, in the distance I could see a white car approaching with an array of fixtures
across the roof. As it came closer, I could see that it was a Texas State Trooper. The
trooper turned on his flashing roof lights, slowed and pulled in behind my car. As he
pushed open his door, he grabbed his stiffly blocked cowboy hat off the passenger
seat, and placed it on his head, adjusting it with a slight tug of his forefingers. His grey
uniform was neat and crisp, as if he just picked it up from the dry cleaners. I wondered
how someone could keep their clothes so neat after sitting in a hot car all day. In a
thick Texas drawl, he asked if I needed help. Gazing at myself into the lenses of a pair
of highly reflective aviator sunglasses, shaded by the curled brim of a grey Stetson, I
explained my situation to him.

After a brief pause, the trooper went back to his car and pulled out his microphone,
stretching a long twisted black cord from somewhere beneath his dashboard, and up
to his mouth. He briefly talked to his dispatcher, and then hung the microphone back
in the car. Walking back over, he told me a tow truck would be coming in a short time.
The trooper then started walking around the Toyota, as if he were inspecting it. He
looked into the window and down underneath the frame. He ran his fingers across the
grill grating, and down along the front bumpers. I thought maybe, with my “Hippie”
appearance, he might suspect I had drugs on me. However, he never asked to search
anything. At one point he stated, “Ain’t seen one of these out here. I’ve seen some
small Jap trucks on occasion, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen a sedan.” He
placed his hand on his jaw and stroked down on it a couple times, giving considerable thought to the vehicle.

Once he was finished examining the exotic machine before him, he began a casual
conversation with me. “I notice you have Illinois plates. Where you from in Illinois?” I
told him I was from the Chicago Area, and was traveling to see a friend in California.
We talked of nothing significant for several minutes before he looked up. “Aah, here
comes Trevor,” as he waved at the oncoming tow truck to signal him in.

Trevor pulled the old 50’s series Chevy truck in front of my car. The vehicle had a worn
out Texaco emblem on the side of the door and the paint on the hood was burnt away
from years of sun exposure. Trevor emerged in his oil stained blue and white striped
mechanic’s jump suit. He had long dirty blonde hair and a moderate mustache. He
held out his hand and we shook, as we introduced ourselves. I told him what I thought
was the problem, to which he declared he would not be able to fix anything at this
location, but would have to take it into town.

After seeing I was properly tended to, the trooper nodded goodbye, got into his car
and left. Trevor then backed up the tow truck closer to the front of my car. He asked
that I put it into neutral, as he connected the chains and hook. He got into the truck,
and started the engine, then came back and pulled a lever in the back of the truck.
The front of the car was slowly lifted off the ground about a foot or so. He pulled back
the lever and placed a metal lock into the chain to keep it from accidentally loosening
as he drove.

We both entered the truck at the same time. The passenger side door creaked a bit as
I opened and closed it. The seat was a dirty grey with some areas of ripped cloth
exposing stuffing and the top of a spring. The truck lurched and whined through
several gears as we headed forward towards town. There was a small hole in the
floorboard, and I could see the surface of the road as we passed over it. The cab had
a musty smell of old oil. After a bit of silence, Trevor flicked on the small portable radio
wedged between the front windshield and the dashboard. Mel Tillis accompanied us
into town.

We drove a couple miles up a low grade, and descended down the other side of a hill
towards the horizon. On the right, a green sign with white letters spelled out Junction,
Population 2,550. I could see the town off to the right as we descended the hill. It
looked like a typical western burg, laid out on grid, a with a main drag lined with
various shops. Several cross streets heading out in either direction pierced the main
street. The side streets were lined with trees shading small homes situated along
roads. Trevor pulled off onto the exit which teed into the main street. He turned right
and headed towards downtown.

As we approached the business district, I could see a large slender red sign with white
letters indicating Texan, above a large wide marquise. I was impressed that such a
small place would have a movie theater. We passed a drug store, a cafe and a
saddlery, before Trevor turned left onto one of the side streets. I was surprised at the
turn, for I could see a gas station further down Main Street, expecting that the Texaco
sign was our destination. We next passed through a residential area before heading
out further beyond the confines of the city. I was getting a bit nervous at this point, but
hesitated to question Trevor directly. I decided to let things play out for now. Just past
a small fenced pasture, Trevor pulled right onto a gravel road which quickly ended at a
ranch with a large weathered barn. Paranoid curiosity finally getting the best of me, I
asked why we were here, and not the local gas station or auto repair shop. “This guy
can help you.” Trevor replied, offering no further explanation.

Three men sat in old weathered wooden chairs, the backs of which were butted up
against the barn. They wore jeans, work shirts, and sweat stained cowboy hats. Their
western boots were well scuffed, with bits of manure clinging to the cusp between the
heel and the sole. One of them gently placed beneath his chair a bottle of wild Turkey
they previously passed between them. As the truck came to a halt, they waved at
Trevor, got up out of their chairs and sauntered over. Trevor met them half way. “Hey
Trev how’s it going?” one of the men shouted. “Just fine, real good, Dil, but we got o
bit a problem here.” Trevor explained my situation to Dil, which I assumed was short
for Dilbert. After some conversation, animated by considerable gestures towards my
car, Dilbert walked over to me and introduced himself. “So, it sounds like ya gotta oil
leak.” I nodded in affirmation, and explained about the crack in the filter housing. He
then went over to the car and lay down next to it, shuffling himself partway underneath.
After a minute or so, she shoved himself back, stood up, and wiped his oily hands on a
rag he had stuffed into his back pocket.

Dil was a tall slender man of middle age. He was deeply tanned with a leathery quality
to his well wrinkled face. I noticed when we shook hands that his finger whorls and
palm creases were stained black, and he had a number of small scars on the back of
his hands. This was a working class man. A hands on kinda guy, who’s persona was
honed by years of hard toil and direct experience.

Dil moved to the front of the car, placed his hand beneath the hood, and popped it
open. He raised it full tilt, and slid the long metal pin up into the hole under the top of
the hood. Once the hood was stable, he asked that I get in and rev up the engine. I
quickly complied, and turned over the engine, which emitted a “whah whah whah
whah,” and never quite started. “Okay stop.” Dil shouted. He replaced the hood and
came up to me. “Yer number one piston is also seared.” “Damn, how could he know
that from just listening to the engine?” I thought to myself. Cognitive dissonance
overwhelmed me for a time. I was trapped between a sense of awe at the man’s
mechanical prowess, and the notion that I may be caught up in some highway robbery
of sorts.

“I ain’t never worked on one of these Jap cars, but I did watch a feller who lives down
south repair the engine in his Toyota pickup. The engines are puuurdy simple. I think I
can help ya.” With a mild sense of incredulity, I asked, “Where the hell are you going to
get parts?” Dil replied, “Well, there’s a Toyota dealership in San Antonio. “I can order
4the parts I need and have them shipped up on the Greyhound that comes up every
other day.” “The guy who owns the pickup knows the clerk in the parts shop. I’ll have
him order them for me.” Other than pay to have my car towed to the dealership in San
Antonio, which is over a hundred miles to the south, I really had no choice. So, I
accepted his offer to make the repairs on site.

“Trevor can take you back into town. There’s a motel there, and you can get some
supper at the nearby cafe. I will take care of things from here.” Dil had Trevor pull the
car into the barn, and left it. He then drove me back to town and stopped in front of
Motel 6. I gave him my AAA information, thanked him, and we parted.

After settling into my motel room, I decided to check out the town, and get something
to eat. Standing out along the row of buildings on the street was a large neon sign with
the words; Isaack Restaurant written on it. Air Conditioned was also boldly printed on
the sign, and it drew me in, as it had been in the nineties all day. The restaurant was
clad in distressed red stained clapboard. The roof looked more like an afterthought of
the architect with its metal frame and flat top—like a metal canopy was dropped down
over the place to serve as a roof. Part of the canopy extended out over the sidewalk,
providing shelter from the elements. I pulled open the single window paned door, and
found myself inside a singular environment of someone’s country kitsch.

I expected the interior to be much smaller. Inside, several wainscoted rooms adjoined
each other. In some places the traditional knotty pine trim was replaced by metal
corrugated paneling, giving it a somewhat industrial look. A number of stuffed deer
heads adorned the upper walls, along with various home spun crafts. A lacquered pine
buffet sat in the center of one large room. A large clawfoot bathtub occupied its center.
Inside the tub were a number of cold food trays sitting atop a deep pile of ice cubes.
On either side of the tub, counters held a variety of condiments. Along one wall was a
row of wooden booths, while another area had formica covered tables with unmatched
chairs around them.

Off in another smaller room stood a short bar wrapped in corrugated tin, with a
stainless steel top. There were several chrome legged stools aligned in front of it.
There was one other large room, the entry of which had a large double door. The room
had a couple of long wooden tables with a number of chairs. It looked like a good
place for the local ranchers club to meet on a regular basis.

I sat down in one of the booths and grabbed a menu from between a bottle of catsup
and a napkin holder. The menu appeared well used, as the plastic coverings were bent
along the outer edges, and had a few scratches across them. The food offerings were
extensive, and included a variety of standard American comfort foods, as well as a few
Mexican dishes.

Not long after I sat down, a waitress, perhaps in her fifties, approached me. She had a
stainless steel urn in one hand, and a ceramic cup in the other. “Coffee sir?” she
uttered with a slight twang to her voice. And yes, of course, she also chewed gum. I
nodded to her, and she quickly placed the cup down and filled it to the brim. She had
a high bouffant hairdo and dark heavy eye liner. She wore a pink striped dress with a
white apron sewn into the front. “Are you ready to order?” she said, as she pulled a
small tablet and pencil from the pocket in the front of her apron. I had noticed a nice
looking hamburger being eaten at another table as I walked in, and decided to order it.
It came with fries and a side of coleslaw.

There were only a few other customers in the place. They spoke openly with each
other, suggesting familiarity between them. While waiting for my order, I pondered the
fate of my car. “How long will this take? Will they be able to get the right parts? Can
the guy fix it right, and if so, how much is this going to set me back? Loud laughter
interrupted my thoughts. I turned to look at the source of the gaiety, and noticed two
tables of people quickly shifting their eyes away from my direction. I became a bit self-conscious, and wondered what they found amusing about me. Perhaps, they were
sharing some hippie jokes or something? Who knows? Their view was suddenly
blocked by the waitress, who brought my order. The hamburger was fantastic, as were
the fries, but the slaw was not so good. I ate quickly, and after gulping down the last
of my coffee, I waved down the waitress, paid for my meal and left.

I had difficulty getting to sleep that night. I kept ruminating over my car. After a period
of restlessness, I remembered that when home, I used the radio as a white noise of
sorts to help me sleep. I turned on the lamp next to the bed, and glanced about the
room for a radio. Indeed, there was one sitting atop an old RCA television. I crawled
to the end of the bed and reached over for it, pulling it towards me, as I sat at the end
of the bed. After squelching through a number of western music stations, I found one
offering American standards. I adjusted the volume and placed it back on top of the
TV. I pulled the cover back over me and tried to relax. I must have drifted off
because the next thing I knew I was awake, and sunlight glowed along the edge of the
heavy window curtain. It was well beyond 10 am, and a brunch was in order. After
cleaning myself up, I dressed and headed back to Isaack’s.

My belly was sated with a well made bacon, cheese and tomato omelet and a couple
cups of strong coffee. Once again it was a hot day, and by one in the afternoon, the
metal posts of the restaurant overhang were too hot to touch. All morning and into the
afternoon, I worried about my Toyota, as I paced the boardwalk along Main Street.
Finally, I decided to walk out to the ranch and check on things. The ranch was about a
mile from town, and the town itself was not that big. Besides, the exercise would do
me good.

Large Oak and Elm trees lined the median strip of the residential areas. A few locals
passed by offering a “Howdy” or Mornin.” Once I hit the city’s edge, vegetation
became sparse, and the road abruptly changed from hot sticky asphalt to gravel. The
gravel was actually more comfortable, than the heat absorbing asphalt. I was glad I
took my panama hat with me on the trip. For it now provided me with a bit of shade
across my head and face. The sun was intense, and sweat quickly formed around my
headband, underarms and upper back.

Coffee is considered a diuretic, and I eventually became aware of that fact. Checking
out both directions down the road, I was pleased that no vehicles or persons were in
sight, allowing me to relieve myself against a knotted fencepost. I continued on,
eventually sighting the ranch house and barn in the distance. A bluebird abruptly flitted
out and back from the top rung of barbed wire, flying off as I got closer to it. The fields
were covered in straw nubs, and intermittent dry caked cow patties. I turned onto the
approach road to the ranch, and headed towards the barn. The chairs were empty,
and an empty bottle of whiskey remained beneath one of them. The barn door was
slightly ajar, and I approached with some hesitancy, not knowing how any local might
consider a stranger on their property.

As I got closer to the opening, I noticed a couple of bright lights hanging from the loft ceiling, and I could hear the hum of a machine.

The door made a loud scrunching noise as I opened it wide enough for me to enter.
Hearing the sound of the door, Dil, off to the left, standing next to a workbench, turned
and looked in my direction. He had a small piston in his hand. He turned back and
flicked a switch, turning off a grinding wheel, fitted with a soft buffer. He held up the
piston, stating, “See, yer number one piston was seared, and I just buffed it out.” I
couldn’t believe it, but he was right. I then turned back in the other direction and saw
my car up on four jacks, hood open, and the entire engine in parts, laid out in front of it, neatly arranged on a clean white sheet.

“Oh my God!” I thought. Dil had dismantled the whole engine, and cleaned all the
parts. He walked over to show me the piston up close. I could see a slightly shinier
surface where he had buffed out the charred oil seared onto the piston by the heat. “ I
ordered the parts I needed last night, and they should be on the 4 pm bus today.” I
was completely dumbfounded and at a loss for words. All I could do was to profusely
thank him for his efforts. “I’d love to share some whisky with ya, he said, but I need to
start putting it all back together. I want to have it all done by tomorrow mornin.” I once
again thanked him, and left him to his work.

That afternoon, as I sat gazing out the window of a tavern, savoring a glass Raynal on
ice, I noticed a Greyhound bus pull in at the small bus depot across the street. It was
almost exactly 4 pm. One passenger got off, and the bus driver unloaded a number of
packages onto a cart, and took them into the station. About fifteen minutes later, a
Dodge pickup pulled in, and Dil got out. He went into the station, and came out with
several boxes of different sizes and placed them into the bed of his pickup. He then
drove off.

I spent most of the afternoon sitting in the bar slowly sipping my drink and gobbling up
salty peanuts, while I had casual conversation with the bar tender. Later, I walked over
to the Texan, bought a drink and some popcorn, and settled in to watch Clint
Eastwood in Dirty Harry. Sleep came easily that night.

I got up late again. It was another hot Texas day. Coming from the Midwest, I had no
tolerance for such heat. After brunch, I bought a few items at the local grocery store
and headed back out to the ranch. I did not know what to expect. I fretted about
money, and ran through my mind a number of ways I might pay for the repairs. There
was a bank in town, and I figured I might have to have some money wired to me. I did
have a credit card, but I doubted Dil had any way of utilizing it. I had some cash, but
probably not enough. When I got to the ranch, I saw my car out front of the barn. Dil
was hosing off the last of some suds on the hood. Not only had he repaired the car,
but he washed it as well. I thought, “God, this is a guy who really appreciates
automobiles. Dil waved to me as I approached him. “Mornin, I finished her up early
this mornin. It’s a neat little thing.” He set down the hose, and went over to the faucet
protruding from the side of the barn, and turned the handle. “Go head, git in and start
her up.” he directed, as he handed me the keys. I got in and turned it over.

“whirrrrummm.” the engine started quickly and kept on humming. It sounded a bit rough, but it ran well. “It’ll be a bit noisy at first, Dil noted, until the rings get fully seated, but you should have no more problems with it.”

I slid out of the car and went over and shook Dil’s hand, thanking him for all his work.
Then I asked the big question. “How much do I owe you for this.” bracing myself for a
shock. “ Oh, well, lets see now.” Dil mused as reached into his pocket and pulled out a
wrinkled receipt. He gazed at it for a moment, and handed it to me. It was a list of
parts, with each part having a price next to it. I mentally summed it up, and to my
surprise, the total was not that bad. “Okay,” I said, “but how much for your labor.” Dil
paused for a moment, then said, “Nothin. You gave me the opportunity to tinker with
one of these jap machines, and that was good enough for me.” I was taken aback by
his generosity, but also greatly relieved. Luckily, I had enough cash on hand to pay for
the parts.

I lifted a brown bag out of a larger handled grocery bag I had brought with me, peeled
it back, and pulled out a bottle of Wild Turkey, and handed it to him. “It’s the least I
could do for you.” Dil smiled, removed a pocket knife from a small leather pouch on
his belt, and cut open the seal on the bottle. With a quick head gesture towards the
chairs, we both walked over to the barn, took a seat and leaned back against the wall.
He offered me the first sip, and we sat for a time, chatting as we passed the bottle
back and forth between us, occasionally swatting at pesky flies. It turned out that he
was also a Vietnam Veteran, so we had something in common.

After a number of war stories, I decided I had had better limit my intake of booze, I did
not want to head back out, and end up with a DUI from that state trooper who helped
me. I said my goodbye, got into the car and drove back towards town. Looking in my
rear view mirror, Dil’s image slowly disappeared in the dust of the road somewhere in
the middle of nowhere

Charles Dickens’ fictional characters depict and portray autobiographical sketches exhibiting the transcendental life experiences, memoirs and events, nostalgia and reminiscences.  In English Literature William Shakespeare’s unparalleled characterization interestingly awakened spirituality and morality in the enterprise of Dickensian characters. This reincarnation of visages or dispositions in the Dickensian prose avidly vivify rhetoric and prosody, figurative language and enjambment. Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield although tricky to be demystified by biographers or critics alike, nevertheless, the intricate details of the 800 pages narrative fascinate the fancy of reading literary fiction. Both modern and traditional critics paraphrase Dickens’ David Copperfield as supernal and infernal forces universalizing the cosmos. Theatrical stages are filming the document from biographical archives.

 Victorian family life sketches emphasize memory and memorializing of the deceased. Grief and acceptance of death should be lamentable atonement through absorption in the memories of lost relationships as explicitly remarked by psychiatrist Beverley Raphael. Omer, the decent grave undertaker and Mr. Chillip, the family physician in David Copperfield psychologically counseling David in periods of ignorance, immaturity, inexperience or fear of death pertaining to the subtlety or inevitability of bereavement. Sense of security, contemplative self or skeptical judgment reinforced David to idealise his mother on the brink of her death. David abhors the remarriage of Clara Copperfield with snobbish Mr. Murdstone.

David felt extreme reluctance and abrogation to work in Murdstone and Granby warehouse. “no words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sink into this low companionship[…]and felt my hopes of being a learned and distinguished man, crushed in my bosom.”  Miserable existence and macabre state reflected with bigoted and radicalized David. However, David’s preservation for the fragile self-constructed identity  reiterates despite class snobbery and hurdles or struggles, “Yet I hold some station at Murdstone and Grinby’s too.” Despite this psychological distance reflects in “Though perfectly familiar with, my conduct and manner were different enough from theirs to place a space between us.” Boisterous nerve and gallantry of prowess manifested the working class or proletariat with scanty meals. David, recollects subtly […] prowling around the streets at meal times“.

Multilingualism and multiculturalism as discussed earlier in the introductory statements of the essay, Dickensian novel David Copperfield touches these aspects through the demanours of Yarmouth community. Socio linguists repertoire or repository of reading materials can be extracted or referenced. David remarks the change in her[Emily’s] demeanour Dan says fondly that her heart is so loving that she feels such things keenly: “It’s na’tral in young folk […] when they’re new to these here trails, and timid.”           

Optimistic glorious brilliances advantages and pessimistic drawbacks of the novel David Copperfield in feminist criticism

Dickens intimates the novel with sheer brilliance of feminist idealization in the character of Agnes Wickfield. Crooked are those defamatory critics proclaiming Dickensian prose as misogynist. Despite tenderness and reconciliation  of addictiveness for Agnes, Mr. Wickfield’s withdrawal effervescence occurred. “Brooding state”, “moody” temperament, “despondency”, “delirious restlessness” of masculine characterization of Mr. Wickfield parallels with melancholic trepidation and one motive in life. “Agnes set glasses and a decanter of port wine.” By and by, Agnes fulfills symbiotic relationship with the ever loving parent Mr. Wickfield  imitating “Angel of Perfection”. However, Agnes’ perfectionism contrast parallels in sacrifice and bequeathing immortal laurels of “Angel of Death”. Victorian society, anticipates the incidents of women’s emancipation through the self -employment and embellishing careers as teachers and governess. In this life struggles, Agnes maintains the large housekeeping existence through sustaining Mr. Wickfield financially and emotionally by the end of the novel.

Another aspect of disparagement amongst critics or readers is essential to distinguish in the light of abhorrence of psychological conflict with opposite sex. Betsey Trotwood, the stereotypical spinster, whose character redeems the facsimile or replica of Miss Havisham of Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. “There must be no mistakes in life with this”, Betsey’s rhetoric parallels analogy with that of “There must be no triffle with emotions”, Miss Havisham. Janet, the maid housekeeper of Ms. Betsey was a bachelorette, maiden, quasi-daughter of Miss. Betsey Trotwood. Janet’s diminutive Jenny symbolically feminine donkeys though tolerable insight, nonetheless, male donkeys and drivers were admonished spontaneously by the lady Betsey. Eventually David’s reunion with Betsey furthered comradeship with the angelic Agnes in London holidays redeemed. Everlasting imaginary god daughter, Betsey Trotwood’s ‘sensory illusion met fulfillment or fruition; since London home reminded the nostalgic native Dover shore countryside cottage.

Mysteries and confusions, ambiguities and secrets sometimes personify out of context exaggeration. “Littimer” depicts the symbolic seashore of David’s mind and memory. The prison scene associated with three penitents ironically drives the illusory stigma experienced by Copperield. David and Uriah Heep share the transcendental reformation, “with Littimer symbolizing a resolution within Copperfield’s memory”.

Exportation of characters to Australia in the aspirational hope that blessed fortunes dwell in that nirvana. Ironicaly, Mr. Micawber’s migration drift symbolic of the idealized Eden or heavenly solitude. This cannot be remedied as perfectionist prevalence but rather idiosyncrasy. Mr. Micawber’s fame spread there as a reputable magistrate settling corporate legal affairs or financial lawsuits in eminence. Readers or critics become skeptically introspective whether the idealization of the character of Agnes have blossomed in the deputation of characters to Australia.  

More next month!              

Positive Vibes

In the situation of the great disaster,

On their own way and level of knowledge –

Everyone are specialist; I or you.

For now let’s turn to be –

The messenger of prosperity,

Rather being the messenger of combat

Through terrorism or war.

From now let us turn off the light of ego;

And understand the power we gain,

Drinking the nectar extracted from –

Our superego.

O My Sylph

What to do and not to do

In this circumstance I like to go in touch of

The leaves and seeds of a sycamore tree

The yellowish-green flowers of the long shady tree 

Under which we can sit for taking rest

The blissful birds soothes the eyes

Setting at acute angles,

The carpels of the female flowers mature into a pair of winged fruits

The plant grows in soft wave of wind, willowy and graceful figure

Staring at the growing head and the sky

O my sylph, you are my heart to leap up and down the hill

Refreshing my body and mind

I pass my days and nights

Love and shade, the expressions of beauty

How rhetoric you talk to me!

A feeling in the moonlit starry sky, the ocean rises within

Shake me up from dying out in darkness. 

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

23/10//2020

Life Yearns for

Why are we breaking down

In this misty darkness?

Why are you clapping so loud

In this gray evening?

The White Silence of awe

Embarks on the long line of pathos

The ceaseless flow of the tides

The timid humanity whispers

Seeming sacrilege – the maggot’s life

A journey towards the deadly world

Tremble at the audacity, frightening around

Though life yearns for the life of immortality.

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

26/10//2020

The Betrayal Of Glaucus

Disclosing the secrets Glaucus, the king of Corinth

Caused a great harm for himself

To vie with you is not my nature

Crossing the land with the goats, lambs, or cows

Across the lonely green fields

And talk to the lambs

A force to live with man and nature

The furious tiger follows me running so fast

But I fly over its mouth, burning eyes

Not being able to have me in its paw

Instead I saw its tame-looking eyes

In this deep green field

I observe the dear’s eyes as beautiful as you

The pet tiger is out roaming with me

A shove back from the track

I still drive around the way – my fascinating power

The secret that must be obeyed

Though every moment it walks on the shadow

How enjoyable the fleshes of Glaucus to the horses!

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

26/10//2020

On The Dewy Grass

I walk on the grass

In this winter dew-wet grass

The morning glitters on the colorful light of the sun

In a moment the world seems to be covered in the mist

The dense white fog deepens the earth

So many lights from so many vehicles before and after

On the way itching the eyes

The dense white fog retards the speed

The drowsy hand on the steering

Leaving behind the grave memory

We start in the morning and finishes at night

Can we imagine the dream in the ceaseless sleeping hours?

While walking in the dew-wet grass what a glow!

Peeping through the leaves of the large Neem Tree!

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

27/10//2020

One Man France

Why are you killing the religion of the world?

Why you open the pages for belittling the brain utilized for?

Don’t you see the world goes upside down?

The Caricature of Prophet Mohammad (Sm.)

Why is this dark image you play for what?

This is not the freedom we attain and sustain for

This is my mirror; I see my face and respect

That is yours; only you can see and be devoted

We all are in the best condition of the hearts built the state for

Who likes to change the border? Let them do?

I live for you, you for me

We are all the same blood

Flowing through the veins pumping the hearts

The same head, eyes or all the same the human structure

That made us different from animals

Though the isle is different for walking and living

I don’t know who Zeus or Aphrodite is

So many gods we see in so many things -a mystery indeed

What a wonderful imagination; knowledge and vision

Can you open the riddle?

Most of us like to live in this world of perseverance

Though there be some exceptions

Then why is this caricature of Prophet Mohammad (Sm.)?

In the name of secularism why is this hatred on Islam?

Burning the world so furious, dear France?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

27/10//2020

Success

To get you,
I clash a lot,
I gazed many times
while dreaming of you !!

I honoured you,
And questioned 
"Why I am standing here?" 
Finally, I came to know, only to get you !!

I came to know,
It isn't easy to get you,
So, I promised myself,
I never resist my dream because of you !!

To get you,
I was just like lunatic,
I couldn't analyse it.
"Who am I ?"
It wasn't detrimental,
To get you,
but wasn't easy to get you !!

I decline my incline,
I think it was your omen,
To me,
to be grabbed by me !!

I never get noble,
I always rushed,
To get you,

To the rowdy,
you are rare.
But to me,
Without you I am bare.!!

With the grace of god,
I want you,
And can't express my joy to be the devotee of you !!

*Pro-Bio* Of *Ike Boat* *Professional Biography* – Pro-Bio *Pro-Bio* – *Ike Boat* #IB Growing Up Story – GUS:

His life, like the metamorphosis stage of an African butterfly going through lots of dramatic changes thought him tremendous things, both negatives and positives. It all started on the suburban street of Amanful West in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana where he mingled and entangled in a life-style some described as being ‘Gutter-Snipe’ or seemingly ‘Ghetto-like’. Thus, both lowly and highly cherished characteristics of a boy with futuristic ambitions in relation to his passion of every-day life. He’s a teenager with heart for reading, writing and reciting what he later termed as ‘Read Aloud Session – RAS’ for short.

Thus, literally or meaning his solitary moment he picks a story book, newspaper or magazine and hides himself at a backyard or close-door to read aloud like communicating in front of audience coupled with gesticulation and sensation in an atmosphere of loneliness. Factually, learning new things and sharing ideas became his hall-mark. Well, as the saying goes “All works and no play, makes jack a dull boy”, viz he sometimes played on sandy pitch football with some neighbors and subsequently played for his primary and junior secondary school football teams. Academically, he’s brilliant and good in lots of subjects hence won the hearts of head teachers to become school prefect in both primary and junior secondary levels respectively. Needless to say, ups and downs as well ‘Doubting Thomases’ of the hood never stopped or bothered him, as he focused in turning his passion to profession in the Arts global industry. LOL, one of his comical growing up character during his early child-hood days of life as a boy, he combined ‘Crying tears with bathing water’ often-times when he’s asked to bath and come for his meal.

Well, if this were Scripture in the book of Psalms, I’ll state ‘Selah’ literally ‘Pause and Think’. So, this GUS happens to be a mixed bag of nostalgia about the Ike Boat chap as it brings to fore deeper things yet to come in his creative arts life-style. Who’s IB Biography In Focus – BIF: Ike Boat (IB) as his popular artiste pseudonym or stage-brand name. He’s originally called Isaac Adjei Boateng to his parent both hails from the Central Region of Ghana, West Africa. In relation to his life-style of creativity and simplicity he chose the current name Ike Boat with the following as meaningful acronym I = Inspirational, K = Kind, E = Effective (IKE), B = Brilliant, O = Oral, A = Artistic, T = Truthful (BOAT).

Well, no wonder such a name has gained both local and global recognition, being on actual and virtual mediums. He’s pushed to welcome and embrace mother nature ie(Earth) on 11th June in the 80s (Eighties), being the fifth male child of seven siblings in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. His child-hood classroom education started at Bishop Essuah Day Nursery and Kindergarten where he continued to Bishop Essuah Primary and Junior Secondary school respectively, for which he completed in the year 1999. Unforgettably, he’s also part of the school’s choir which rehearsal was organized and done bi-weekly, thus during days of secondary cycle education. Again, academically he continued his studies at St.John’s School and completed in June,2002 as a General Arts graduate. Later in the years, his passion about ministry made him a student of Theology at Maryland Bible College & Seminary of Takoradi being on the list of starters as a means of acquiring insight and knowledge in the scriptures.

Fast forward bit, in the year 2014 specifically between October and December he’s sponsored to study A1 German linguistic at the Goethe Institut of Cantonments in Accra, Ghana. He’s such a true admirer of languages and always ready to learn from other tongues with clarity of accent as well as intonation. Indeed, he’s capable to express himself as in communicating and writing a bit in German language “Ich sprache ein bischon Deutsch”. Of course, he had average pass-mark during after test examination at Goethe Institut of Cantonments in Accra, Ghana – West Africa. His passion for music and poetry is a natural result of inspiration through writing and singing. In relation to marriage, he’s never married and remains faithful to have cross-cultural inter-racial marriage as he’s still single chap with life purpose.

Works And More – WAM: In the year 2016, he’s appointed as Manager and Librarian of Amanful Digital Library & Learning Arena – ADLLA at Amanful West suburb of Takoradi, Western Region, Ghana. Whilst there he taught school kids reading and writing skills, thus through pronunciation and dictation. His other works also proper arrangement of library shelves as well as online publications of ADLLA. It’s under his managerial role that’s when ADLLA benefited from book funding donation of $1000 dollars. Aside, he’s also able to organize first ever pre-Basic Education Certificate Examination (BECE) evening classes.

In 2018, he played solid management role with Samanti Super-Market, a subsidiary under the auspices of Samanti Group of Companies, thus he contributed effectively to the social media publicity and strategic online marketing of it products. He’s administrator and media director in charge of vlogs as well blogs of the super-market. On 28th, 30th and 31st July,2018 he’s instrumental in coming up with a program outline for the official grand opening of Samanti Supermarket being the MC on 28th July,2018. Subsequently, he came up with the ‘Shop And Chop – SAC’ concept as a means of customer attraction acts which took place at the Samanti Supermarket premises, Lapaz area of Accra. Specifically, as buyers were entreated with free Pizzas and Drinks, thus Monday on 30th July,2018. On the last day of July,2018 he’s part of the .Samanti Group of Companies – SGOC, team which donated $2000 dollars plus items to the Accra Psychiatric Hospital in Accra, capital of Ghana, West Africa.

Directly and indirectly, he’s also contributed to mini promo-vlogs for B-Flat Studio under PAP Zone 101 Sound Equipment and Events Company based in Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. He also engaged in assisting then Manager of Estate Lodge Limited – ELL hitherto at Estate Top of Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. Thus, sometimes as receptionist and other times as cleaning fellow of the premises whilst residing at same place. He’s also worked as a local port volunteer onboard the OM ships such as MV Logos II, MV Doulos and MV Logos Hope as well as serving several other mission-oriented travelers and tourist in to Ghana, thus from countries such as Britain (UK), USA, Canada, Australia, Germany just to mention but a few.

He’s also hired to worm as social media page Assistant Manager on Facebook courtesy Sprinforth Community School – SCS and there’s progressive numerical Likes. Better-still, he also did a promo-vlog to help online publicity of the school, located at East Legon in Accra, Ghana. Book Reading Review – BRR Promotional Concept He’s done special social media BRR for Authors such as Mr.Okechwuku Okugo (Nigerian) based in New York, USA. Mr.Dennis Mann (Mr.Dennis Agyeman) – Ghanaian based in Accra, capital city of Ghana.

Hitherto, he’s also been featured publications on the following online Magazines: *Wake Magazine – USA *Synchronized Chaos Magazine – USA (www.synchchaos.com) Portfolios As Artiste – PAA: Musically, his first ever demoed song titled Jubilee Love reggae genre was recorded at KODED Studio in Takoradi by then studio Assistant engineer, this in 2007. And in 2010, he recorded another Gospel Reggae single dubbed Gabbatha To Golgotha at the P&M Studio also in Takoradi, Western Region of Ghana. He has composed several songs, one titled OM All The Way dedicated to Operation Mobilization – www.om.org 

It’s later recorded in-studio whilst at Tema with a professional instrumentalist fellow. The following are some notable audio portfolios online: No Mom Like Rose (Spoke-Word Poem), I Can’t Understand – ICU (Spoken-Word Poem), Oh, CV – Corona Virus! (Spoken-Word Poem), The Piano (Spoken-Word Poem). They can be listened to via Sound-Cloud Web-Link: www.soundcloud.com/ikeboatofficial Special birthday dedication dubbed Our Triple A @ Seventy, thus Mr.Alfred Addo Acheampong (Dual citizen of USA and Ghana) with Mr.Kenneth Anim as the Executive Producer. Being such a talented vocal individual, he’s done series of Voice-Overs ranging from Adverts, Promos and Jingles which have aired both on-air (radio) and on-line (world-wide-web). Some notable ones includes: Mount Sinai Enterprise (Takoradi), Samanti Super-Market (Accra), PAMUCHAHA Program By Breakthrough Family Ministries International (Takoradi), Raycona 1 Venture (Kasoa), Green-Light Academy (Kasoa), Shining Light Educational Centre (Kasoa), Fire Of Favour Chapel International (Kasoa), Smally Green Super Collections (Nigeria), Crystal Palace Hotel (Kasoa), Poks Vocational Training Institute (Ashaiman).

He’s also recorded unreleased Poetic-Ad piece for Bel Aqua Mineral Water as a creative promotional work dubbed AABA Project still in-studio pending remix and refix engineering touches. Indeed, he’s such an incredible Voice-Over in terms of vocal prowess for making Adverts, Promo and Jingles. He’s also featured on P.O.E.T Anthology and Spoken-Word poem feature on Blaq Ice Production album in USA respectively. As a professional vocal talent, he’s also a good musical figure with demos and singles as part of his unreleased audio portfolios. In relation to film-making or movie acting, his first ever character feature took place at Blue Top Villa as he played a dramatic role as Patron in one of the scenes courtesy Gh-Media School students film project. Precisely, on 4th January,2021 – Title of Film: Riddles. He’s often open and hopes to enhance his professional portfolios to the apex, thus on higher heights in both local and global arts industry.

Media Experience – ME: Radio/Television/Internet (Online) – His first ever radio experience, thus exposure took place on Radio Maxx 105.1 FM as mere introducer of a Christian program dubbed Power Word of Jesus hosted by Rev.Nyameyekese Wireku. Specifically, it’s in the year 2003 as a fresh graduate of Senior High School (2002) at the heart of Western Region, Ghana.(West Africa). As a matter of fact, he’s associated with the following media organizations: BBC – World Service, being instrumental during the official launch of BBC 104.7 FM in the Western Region of Ghana. He’s the microphone holder towards audience contributions at the Skyy Amphitheatre during the live broadcast of World Have Your Say – WHYS hosted by Ros Atkins of British Broadcasting Corporation – BBC fame.

Unforgettably, he’s interactive and informative several times during the weekly broadcast of Maple Leaf Mail-Bag show on Radio Canada International in Montreal, Canada hosted by Ian Jones precisely via phone contributions and online submissions on the show. Better-still, he’s done numerous postal correspondence and received behind the scenes recognitions on Voice of America – VOA in USA as he did a creative poetic write-up about VOA. There’s been some other effective contributions on some notable international broadcasters, thus acting as Correspondent.

The following are some key radio stations he’s had connections and contributions in relation to program or content participation, thus even interviews and being a panelist on-air i.e. (Good-News 96.3 FM, Help 103.9 FM, Beach 105.5 FM, Paragon 99.9 FM, Empire 102.7 FM, Radio Silver 92.3 FM, Y.97.9 FM, Cheers 90.7 FM, Angel 95.5 FM, Kingdom 107.5 FM, Kyzz 89.7 FM, Twin City Radio 94.7 FM, Western Region, Ghana). GBC-Uniiq 95.7 FM, Sunny 88.7 FM, Class 91.3 FM, Joy 99.7 FM, Starr 103.5 FM – Accra, capital of Ghana). His first ever television appearance took place on TV3 Mentor as part of Western Region music audition/screening in 2006.

Subsequently, he’s also on the Vodafone Icon – Mixed Edition music audition in Takoradi-city at the time. He’s been on several other TV screens sometimes on street vox-pop and phone-in or text message contribution. Prior to 2020 General Elections in Ghana, together with Face-TV crew under the management of Grino Multi-Media he did a pre-election vox-pop sampling views about which political party and presidential candidate was likely to win power to rule the nation, Ghana. His maiden moment on live TV show as a panelist took place on Awake TV dated Friday,19th March.2021 at 10pm to 11pm which was simultaneously streamed live on Facebook. Directly and indirectly, he’s contributed to several other TV and Radio programs both in the Western and Greater Accra (Capital) regions of Ghana. Besides, He’s been effective on some notable online broadcasting platforms, even when it comes to social media publications. His rich knowledge in the media-spheres has revealed his versatility and creativity with respect to radio and television.

Hence, has made him one of the secretly and highly sought-after creative content provider, being a reputable contributor of different programs on-air and on-line respectively. He has professional connections with other on-air radio station personalities in different regions of the country due to his insightful broadcasting expertise and communication experiences. Last but not least, he’s also good when it comes to social media page and group management. Gigs In Detail – GID: Ike Boat as a Spoken-Word figure, has performed on stages such as the maiden launch of Western Music Awards in Takoradi, Western Region, Ghana. Peace Gospel Concert organized at Bethel Methodist Church, Takoradi in 2016. Spoken Reasons by Takoradi Poetry Club in Western region, Ghana. Valentine Night Show by GIE Events in Takoradi, Ghana. Reflections Music Album Launch by Minister Shedrack Tronu at Takoradi Polytechnic Auditorium, Western Region, Ghana. The Thinking Conference organized Good-News 96.3 FM, Takoradi, Ghana. Shine Awards – Breakfast Meeting – March,2018 in Accra, Ghana. Poetry And Drama Festival by Centre for National Culture – 2018 at Fijai, Sekondi, Ghana. Maiden Event of Street Praise by PAP Zone 101 at Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. I-Code Event 2021 – Takoradi, Western Region, Ghana. PAP Zone 101 – Africa Union Day Event at Crystal Palace Hotel, Top Hill – Kasoa, Central Region, Ghana. of Just to mention but a few…

MC Of Events/Shows: IB as a skillful and brilliant Master Communicator #MC of ceremonies. He’s thrilled audiences of Birthday parties, Wedding, Engagement, Album launch and other social functions. He’s chosen to be the MC of his uncle’s 70th Birthday Party at Estate Top, Kasoa. Constantly and consistently, he’s Anchored as MC of Church programs at Mount Zion International Gospel Church, Estate Top of Kasoa. In 2018, he’s the official MC during the opening of Samanti Super-Market at Lapaz, Accra. Indeed, two consecutive times he’s MC of Street Praise organized by PAP Zone 101 at Kasoa, Central Region of Ghana. He’s also contributed as supporting or auxiliary MC of Wedding Feast which took place at Blue Top Villa, Kasoa, Ghana. Better-still, he’s the auxiliary MC alongside DJ during Graduation Event organized by In God We Trust Vocational Training Institute at Kasoa, Central Region, Ghana. Interestingly, he’s often quite entertaining when MC alongside DJ playing music to audiences. He’s often influential figure, be it minor or major events or shows.

Achievements/Awards/Nominations – AAN: 2014 – Nominee (International Poet of the Year), NPA – National Poetry Awards, USA. 2015 – Nominee (International Poet of the Year), NPA – National Poetry Awards, USA. 2016 – Awardee (Winner) – (International Poet of the Year), NPA – National Poetry Awards, USA 2017 – Awardee (Winner) – (Best International Artist of the Year), NSWA – National Spoken-Word Awards – Courtesy ‘Blaq Ice Production’ – USA. People Of Extraordinary Talent – P.O.E.T – Africa Ambassadorial Award, USA. 2018 – Awardee (Winner) – (Best International Artist of the Year), NSWA – National Spoken-Word Awards – Courtesy ‘Blaq Ice Production’ – USA. Shine Awards – Nominee – Poet Of The Year, Accra – Ghana, 2019 – Awardee (Winner) – (Best International Artist of the Year), NSWA – National Spoken-Word Awards – Courtesy ‘Blaq Ice Production’ – USA. 2020 – Nominee – (Best International Artist of the Year), NSWA – National Spoken-Word Awards – Courtesy ‘Blaq Ice Production’ – USA. Bronze Certificate – Vocal Category – Virtual Edition – World Championship Of Performing Arts – WCOPA, USA. Tikpan TV Writing Contest, UK & Ghana – 1st Edition – First Winner 2021 – Nominee – (Best International Artist of the Year), NSWA – National Spoken-Word Awards – Courtesy ‘Blaq Ice Production’ – USA. 2021 – Nominee – (Humanitarian Of The Year) – Global Empire Entertainment Media Awards – GEEMA, USA

Welcome all to July’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine! This month the submissions highlight the wonder, danger, beauty and complexity of the world around us.

Anthony Vernon kicks us off with a short piece about a child’s awe at the night sky.

Hongri Yuan’s poetry, translated by Yuanbing Zhang, connects with a timeless imaginative world beyond Earth.

Sushant Thapa looks to the sky, showing how all of us, homeless people included, are part of life on the same planet.

Jack Galmitz’ parable encourages ecological conservation while inviting us to consider how much thought and decision-making agency we imagine non-human life to have. Chimezie Ihekuna’s poem calls out both the precarity and the joy of living on Earth.

Marjorie Thelen ponders rural American life: being dwarfed and amazed by expanses of space and time, working hard to maintain one’s lifestyle, realities and stereotypes of the social climate, and the complex ways farmers and ranchers relate to the ecosystems and the animals they raise.

Lazlo Aranyi’s poetry evokes the ancient wisdom of the Tarot while Jaie Miller writes of dream states, memory and destiny. Alan Catlin drawn on both older and newer history and culture as metaphors for his stream of consciousness work.

Robert Thomas looks at WWII through his father’s experience as a bombardier and tail gunner. Steven Croft, a combat veteran himself, reflects on more recent armed conflicts from the point of view of ordinary soldiers and civilians, past and present. Susie Gharib poignantly demonstrates the effect of economic sanctions on civilians through pieces that combine reminiscence, grief, and nostalgic elegance.

Jeff Rasley depicts current conditions at Wounded Knee, South Dakota, a Sioux reservation where people work and honor their culture and eke out a living in creative ways despite extreme poverty. This is an excerpt from his upcoming book America’s Existential Crisis: Our Inherited Obligation to Native Americans.

Patricia Doyne contributes two poems on urgent American social issues: gun violence and the environment and climate change.

Mahjabeen Rafiuddin and Bianca Stewart both review Michael Robinson’s recently released poetry collection From Chains to Freedom, about the pain and resilience of the Black male experience in the US.

Zara Miller explores the genesis and character arcs of villains and heroes. Frankie Laufer’s work also explores narrative, with an ode to the experience of reading, yet then shows how our emotions can outweigh the stories we tell ourselves about our relationships.

In the second installment of his Ph.D. thesis, Z.I. Mahmud probes Charles Dickens’ personal history and how it could have inspired parts of his novel David Copperfield.

Christopher Bernard also continues his Ghost Trolley story, heightening the adventure for ‘children and their adults.’

Ian Smith’s poetic speakers look out over panoramas of water and sand, remembering their books and travels. Kahlil Crawford’s piece follows a single man through a modern metropolis, showing his individual struggles and experiences participating in public art and culture.

Ivan Jenson writes of the inner loneliness and complex, shifting identity that can come as part of the human condition, while Abigail George recollects a past flame within a meditative piece on creative inspiration, family and romantic love, womanhood and mental health.

Terry Tierney reviews Virginia Aronson’s new poetry collection Hikikomori, about modern-day people in Japan who have chosen to withdraw from society out of feelings of inadequacy and shame, a preference for solitude, or a combination of those reasons.

Anthony Ward describes the responsibility of jury duty, the heavy weight on his character’s conscience when he realizes that he isn’t sure about a life and death decision.

Mark Young’s visual art pieces harness contrast as an artistic device: vibrant and subtle colors, defined and fuzzy lines and shapes juxtaposed. He incorporates English words as a pictorial rather than a communicative element, encouraging us to see the letters themselves as part of the crafted picture.

The universe, even the world inside our own minds, can seem huge and overwhelming. Yet we each have a place here, and we can certainly assert that we belong and celebrate our joy when we find our place.

Ike Boat puts himself forward as a spoken word artist with a personal biography and several still shots of himself performing work in different styles. He also reviews Dennis Mann’s children’s book Mr. Pee Pee.

Sheryl Bize-Boutte crafts an unconventional love story, where two vastly different human beings recognize a common bond.

And our individual lives and choices can matter.

Mahbub’s pieces are poems of life, about a willingness to love and live in the world wherever we find ourselves.

Chimezie Ihekuna’s spotlighted screenplay One Man’s Deep Words focuses on a professor who finds his own intellectual and personal voice.

Sarita Sarvate sends an excerpt from her upcoming memoir Leaving the Cuckoo’s Nest, about leaving an arranged marriage and creating a new life for herself in a new country.

We hope that this issue will inspire you to seek out and find your own artistic and creative voice and to read and learn from the many ideas, cultures and values presented here.