Modern litter
TV haze- such a healthy glow.
Holding you captive, to kill you slow.
Comatose, sedated colour tube.
Coke and McDonald’s begin to collude.

Building for obsolescence.
Robbing the mind and creating allegiance.
Selling your soul to the highest bidder.
The concrete machine presses even more litter.

Perfect Wife.

Blood looks like motor oil,
engines choke and fall apart.
I cough on your fumes.
Servitude looms.
I’ve wrapped my legs around you
and cleaned your bones of all your marrow.

The engine comes to a grinding halt.
Standing tall becomes my fault.
Years ago I must have asked for all
the clean dishes I have passed.

The gears never change,
the growling engine threatens to derange.
All you touch becomes mine.
I’ve cleaned your body, your house and your mind.
For some reason I look under my skirt
and find engine oil and all your dirt.

Danielle Searby may be reached at violetpixie@optusnet.com.au and welcomes comments, feedback, and interest in the publication of her writing.

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        The period between the late sixteenth century and the seventeenth century was one of warring in the Eastern Salient of Java. In 1628 the Dutch defeated them. The Eastern Salient was conquered in 1640.  In the 1680’s Madurese and the Makkasar rebels joined the Trunajaya rebellion. Dutch forces pursued these into the mountains of Tengger. These mountains contained some of the last Buddhists to resist Islamization. This marked a hundred years of political violence in Tengger. The most important of these rebels was Surapati. After being defeated by the Dutch he fled into the East Java. He was killed in battle in 1706. In the Tengger Mountains the Dutch continued to meet resistance. In the 1760’s Tengger fell to the Dutch.

       In the early nineteenth century he Dutch would change the demographic of East Java. In the lowlands surrounding Tengger the Dutch created rich sugar plantations. Many of these were run by traditional landowners, but there also was the presence of large plantations needed a landless worker. So the Dutch imported Muslim Madurese to operate these plantations. But this sugar crop could not be grown in the dry, arid highlands of Tengger. Many of the lowlands move inward up to near where the Wong Tengger lived.  Coffee production proved to be a very successful crop.

       During the late nineteenth century the Dutch took great interest in the Tengger religion along with the advancement of Islam. The preference towards Islam was because it was an organized political force. This was hoped to oppose the rebellious nature of inland Javanese. One problem that developed was a growing presence of Islamic fundamentalists that opposed traditional Javanese customs. This proved to be a problem to the Dutch.

           Because of this the Dutch began to pay more attention to the Tengger cultures. This began during the last decade of the nineteenth century.

Reuben Rutledge is finishing a Ph. D. at California’s Institute of Integral Studies (San Francisco.) He may be reached at rutledreub@aol.com and enjoys intellectual intercourse and local San Jose art galleries.

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Nias Islanders

      Due to their connection with Indian Hindu culture, the Nias islanders have received considerable attention. This culture bears a great resemblance to the Nagas of Assam. The Nias stone culture does date later than the Nagas. There are stone fortresses, paved streets, and stone step ways. Stone memorial monuments are erected to great feasts. Unlike mainland Sumatra, icons appear in abundance. Linga (phallic symbols) are the most common. Icons are made of clay, stone, and mostly wood.

      The Southern Nias believed that the world originated according to a certain story; at the beginning there was no world, only chaos. Chaos split and a goddess emerged who created the world along with another primordial goddess. This goddess begat two pairs of twins. The child that ruled the sky had a wife who begat a human child. This child was completely round, without hands or feet.  The child was cut in half so that one part was male and the other was female.

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Henrietta

By

Didacus-Jeff Ramos

(Best read with Papua New Guinea Kegabah Estate and a classic coffee cake.)

The feast of St. Anthony only comes once a year.  I think it’s in the Fall, but can never remember exactly when.  One day the trucks pull up in the paved school yard carrying the scissor barrel ride, the swings, kiddy rides and a wild mouse.  Booths go up with spinning wheels painted with numbers that matched the numbers on the board table on the front of the booth where we bet the coins Monsignor Martin threw to us.  We scrambled for the pennies—if you were lucky you found a nickel.  It was really hard to concentrate on school work from then on.  We would be let out early that day—2 p.m.

Last night we finished the novena to Our Lady of Fatima—nine evenings of prayers and songs of devotion.  Today is the feast of St. Anthony of Padua—San Antonio do Padua.  Even though our parish is dedicated to All Saints (actually Our Lady of All Saints), St. Anthony is the patron saint.  I always thought he was Portuguese—San Diego (Saint Didacus) was.  So was San Luis Obispo—well, he was from the Iberian peninsula—that put him in the ball park, at least.  My mother told me that I have a good voice when we sing the hymns in Latin and Portuguese.  I sparkle with the compliment but really am already tasting pan con soupos and strawberry soda.  The festa will last three days—three days of rides, gambling and too much food.  That was our definition of ecstasy.

This year I’ve saved my money.  My sister saves everything she gets and writes it down in her little account book.  I’m perpetually broke.  Everyone knows that if I have any money, which is rare, all they have to do is ask me and I’ll “lend” it to them.  No one ever pays me back.  Everyone at school has more than I do.  I guess that’s why they don’t think it’s such a big deal to just forget about it.  I know that if I get stuck, I can ask either my sister or my cousin Ed to “lend” me money for this event.  The last day of the festa is the auction.  My mother has finally conceded that if I use my own money and win, I can have the animals that are always auctioned.

Read more of this small-town vignette here: http://community.livejournal.com/chaos_zine/5720.html

In magic, we watched him perform

The first generation to see the wonder

He sang out, on perfect pitch

No-one could steal his thunder

In this spirit so alive

Was the heartbeat of “The Jackson Five”

An audience of children responded

Giving him love, he had never known

Away from all the adoration

The little boy with the platform shoes cried in the dark alone

From where the audience sat transfixed

There was no guile, or clever trick

In his soulful songs, so alive

Here was the heartbeat of “The Jackson Five”

Watching him pour out his joy

 On front and center stage

No-one guessed

That his broken heart

Would fuel the fire of fear, and outrage

Years after the 10 year old’s

Footsteps faded

He knew he needed another look

He made a come-back

And a new generation

Asked him to sign his name in their book

In this new boy-man

Whose feet glided

As on air, so alive

Was the heartbeat of a new generation

Whose parents remembered “The Jackson Five”

He went on to dazzle

With new mediums

With bizarre facial masks

The children still adored him

Imitating his “moon-walk dance”

Years later

When the media turned on him

And extortion took its toll

When crowds shirked away,

Loyal fans stood by him still

For they remembered that little boy

When the song inside him, came alive

For the song was the heartbeat of a nation

And a hope that love would survive

Cynthia Lamanna may be reached at cynthialamanna@yahoo.com and writes poetry and prose.

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