Unjustified Fears

by Fernando  Sorrentino

(Spanish title: Temores injustificados)

Translated

by Naomi Lindstrom

I’m not very sociable, and often I forget about my friends. After letting two years go by, on one of those January days in1979 — they’re so hot — I went to visit a friend who suffers from somewhat unjustified fears. His name doesn’t matter; let’s call him — just call him — Enrique Viani.

On a certain Saturday in March, 1977, his life changedcourse.

It seems that, while in the living room of his house, near thedoor to the balcony, Enrique Viani saw, suddenly, an “enor­mous” — according to him — spider on his right shoe. No soonerhad he had the thought this was the biggest spider he’d seen inhis life, when, suddenly leaving its place on his shoe, the animalslipped up his pants leg between the leg and the pants.

Enrique Viani was — he said — “petrified.” Nothing so dis­agreeable had ever happened to him. At that instant he recalled two principles he had read somewhere or other, which were: 1) that, without exception, all spiders, even the smallest ones, carry poison, and can inject it; and, 2) that spiders only sting when they feel attacked or disturbed. It was plain to see, that huge spider must surely have plenty of poison in it, the fullstrength toxic type. So, Enrique Viani thought the most sensible thing to do was hold stock still, since at the least move of his, the insect would inject him with a definitive dose of deadly poison.

So he kept rigid for five or six hours, with the reasonable hope that the spider would eventually leave the spot it had taken up on his right tibia; clearly, it couldn’t stay too long in a place where it couldn’t find any food.

As he came up with this optimistic prediction, he felt that, in­ deed, the visitor was starting to move. It was such a bulky, heavy spider that Enrique Viani could feel — and count — the footfalls of the eight feet — hairy and slightly sticky — across the goose flesh of his leg. But, unfortunately, the guest was not leav­ing; instead, it nested, with its warm and throbbing cephalothorax and abdomen, in the hollow we all have behind our knees.          

•••

Up to here we have the first — and, of course, fundamental — part of this story. After that there came some not very significant variations: the basic fact was that Enrique Viani, afraid of getting stung, insisted on keeping stone still as long as need be, despite his wife and two daughters’ pleas for him to abandon the plan. And so, they came to a stalemate where no progress was possible.

Then Graciela — the wife — did me the honor of calling me in to see if I could resolve the problem. This happened around two in the afternoon: I was a bit annoyed to have to give up my one siesta of the week and I silently cursed out people who can’t manage their own affairs. Once over at Enrique Viani’s house, I found a pathetic scene: he stood immobile, though not in too stiff a pose, rather like parade rest; Graciela and the girls were crying.

I managed to keep myself calm and tried to calm the three women as well. Then I told Enrique Viani that if he agreed to my plan, I could make quick work of the invading spider. Opening his mouth just the least bit, so as not to send the slightest quiver through his leg muscle, Enrique Viani wondered:

“What plan?”

I explained. I’d take a razor blade and make a vertical slit downwards in his pants leg till I came to the spider, without even touching it. Once this was done, it would be easy for me to hit it with a rolled‑up newspaper, knock it to the floor and then kill it or catch it.

“No, no,” muttered Enrique Viani, desperate, but trying to restrain himself. “The pants leg will move and the spider will sting me. No, no, that’s a terrible idea.”

Stubborn people drive me up the wall. Without boasting, I can say my plan was perfect, and here this wretch who’d made me miss my siesta just up and rejects it, for no serious reason and, to top it off, he’s snotty about it.

“Then I don’t know what on earth we’ll do,” said Graciela. “And just tonight we have Patricia’s fifteenth birthday party …”

“Congratulations,” I said, and kissed the birthday girl.

“. . and we can’t let the guests see Enrique standing there like a statue.”

“Besides, what will Alejandro say.”

“Who’s Alejandro?”

“My boyfriend,” Patricia, predictably, answered.

“I’ve got an idea!” exclaimed Claudia, the little sister. “We can call Don Nicola and…”

I want it clear that I wasn’t exactly wild about Claudia’s plan and had nothing to do with its being adopted. In fact, I was dead set against it. But everyone else was heartily in favor of it and Enrique Viani was more enthusiastic than anyone.

So Don Nicola showed up and right away, being a man of action and not words, he set to work. Quickly he mixed mortar and, brick by brick, built up around Enrique Viani a tall, thin cylinder. The tight fit of his living quarters, far from being a drawback, allowed Enrique Viani to sleep standing up with no fear of falling and losing his upright position. Then Don Nicola carefully plastered over the construction, applied a base and painted it moss green to blend in with the carpeting and chairs.

Still, Graciela — dissatisfied with the general effect of this mini obelisk in the living room — tried putting a vase of flowers on top of it and then an ornamental lamp. Undecided, she said:

“This mess will have to do for now. Monday I’ll buy something decent‑looking.”

To keep Enrique Viani from getting too lonely, I thought of staying on for Patricia’s party, but the thought of facing the music our young people are so fond of terrified me. Anyway, Don Nicola had taken care to make a little rectangular window in front of Enrique Viani’s eyes, so he could keep entertained watching certain irregularities in the wall paint. So, seeing everything was normal, I said goodbye to the Vianis and Don Nicola and went back home.

•••

In Buenos Aires back in those years we were all overwhelmed with duties and obligations: the truth is I almost forgot all about Enrique Viani. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, I managed to get free for a moment and went to call on him.

I found he was still living in his little obelisk, only now a splendid blue‑flowering creeper had twined its runners and leaves all around it. I pulled a bit to one side some of the luxuriant greenery and through the little window I managed to spot a face so pale it was nearly transparent. Guessing the question I was about to ask, Graciela told me that, through a kind of wise adaptation to the new circumstances, nature had exempted Enrique Viani from all physical necessities.

I didn’t want to leave without making one last plea for sanity. I asked Enrique Viani to be reasonable; after twenty‑three months of being walled up, this spider of ours was surely dead, so, then, we could tear down Don Nicola’s handiwork and ….

Enrique Viani had lost the power of speech or at any rate his voice could no longer be heard; he just said no desperately with his eyes.

Tired and, maybe, a bit sad, I left.

In general, I don’t think about Enrique Viani. But lately, I recalled his situation two or three times, and I flared up with rebellion: ah, if those unjustified fears didn’t have such a hold, you’d see how I’d grab a pickaxe and knock down that ridiculous structure of Don Nicola’s; you’d see how, facing facts that spoke louder than words, Enrique Viani would end up agreeing his fears were groundless.

But, after these flareups, respect for my fellow‑man wins out, and I realize I have no right to butt into other people’s lives and deprive Enrique Viani of an advantage he so treasures.

TESTIMONY

Darkness came upon me like a tsunami

And Scorched away my smiles

Pulling me through the shadows of death

Disassembling my tiles

Ignorance was my buddy,

We wined and dined,

And life that as once shining,

Has not started dimming.

I battled against myself

Cuz I couldn’t flee my fright

Anger reigned over my voice

And darkness was my sight 

At some point, I felt the turbulence circulating my veins

The rage of horror parading my scenes

I feared my fears and hid my pains

Pretending freedom but mentally in chains 

One day, I felt a man coming my way

No, not just a man but a God

A God who holds the world in his hands

His fragrance overgrown my odor

His presence made the day

And once again I felt I had a savior

He touched me and give my life a meaning

He broke me and gave me a new 

beginning

He scorched me so I could bleed away my pains

He baptized me and made me clean again 

He give me a new name and purpose

He called me his own though he wasn’t supposed

I knew I wasn’t worthy of him and all his glory but he called me his son; and to me, eternal life he proposed.

I gladly accepted to be his citizen

Rebored of his love

Justified by his blood

and Sanctified by his choice

FOR THIS, I TESTIFY

Because he rectified all my mistakes

Justified me no matter what it takes

Nullify my flaws

Amplified my joy

And Solidify my hope in him

So this is my Testimony

Charles G. Kpan, Jr, is a Spoken Word Poet and goes by the Penn Name: Charley De Inspirator. He termed his writing style as Inspirational Poetry. His work has been featured in Local and Internal Poetry Magazines including: PoetrySoup, We Write Liberia, League of Poets, Eboquils, helloPoetry, All Poetry, SpillWords etc.

Versions of Heat



with the drip of wax 

down a scar on my hand

to replicate a lost spark

i wonder at a candle unaware of an ending

of burning out an only tasting metal

i wonder at a candle

when will it be spring again?

summer may be long and dreary

warmth that suffocates a breath of air

but not the burn

of when your skin has tanned too much and pinches a fiery red

that shouldn’t be possible without wind

until too much blows it out

blows out the red of leaves

the gold (of winning, of shining, and of burning)

into brown

metal can taste different no matter what

but the color will always be dark

opposite of burning

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

First of all, we encourage you to come on out to Metamorphosis, our New Year’s Eve gathering and benefit show for the Revolutionary Association of Women of Afghanistan and Sacramento’s Take Back the Night. This will take place in downtown Davis, CA, at 2pm in the fellowship hall of Davis Lutheran Church (all are welcome, we’re simply using their room as a community space). 4pm Pacific time is midnight Greenwich Mean Time so we can count down to midnight. Please sign up here to attend.

The theme “Metamorphosis” refers to having people there from different generations to speak and read and learn from each other, challenging us to honor the wisdom of our parents and ancestors while incorporating the best of the world’s new ideas in a thoughtful “metamorphosis.” We’ve got comedian Nicole Eichenberg, musicians Avery Burke and Joseph Menke, and others on board as well as speakers from different generations.

Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced our Nature Writing Contest for 2022.

This is an invitation to submit poems and short stories related to trees, water, and nature conservation between now and the March 2023 deadline. More information and submission instructions here!

This month, our issue explores the often quite thin veneer between ourselves and the world’s wildness.

J.K. Durick’s work looks into time, memory, and the fears humans and animals bring into the most mundane encounters. Daniel DeCulla, in a more humorous vein, writes of people who embrace dog poop as part of our world.

Nathan Whiting’s concrete poetry reflects layered physical sensations of nature: intimacy, hibernation, and composting fruit. J.D. Nelson points out a few of the hidden natural encounters people may miss in a suburban neighborhood. Christopher Bernard illustrates a mysterious character who forms a deep bond with the ocean.

Rose Knapp’s pieces reference theology and cultural history along with the natural world. And Thomas Reisner’s artwork reminds us that the natural world can be one very wild place indeed.

Jim Meirose highlights the “wildness” of the general public by illustrating one type of distinctive character clerks encounter while working at a store. Jaylan Salah analyzes the film Emily the Criminal and suggests that the main character is perhaps more of a regular person facing the gritty reality of life rather than a villain. As in Meirose’s shoe store, the workplace can be as harsh and uncivilized as any natural landscape.

Lisa Reynolds suggests that there can be more drama than meets the eye within a simple family scrapbook.

Emdadul Hoque Mamun contributes a sensual ode to the beauty of raucous Parisian nightlife.

Our problems, the unpredictability of our lives, are another aspect of “wildness.” Alison Owings describes a gathering of Native American people for dinner and a drum circle in a piece that touches on their everyday struggles and society’s inequities.

Jalaal Raji references Greek mythology in his piece on the possible instability of romantic love. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam’s collaborative haikus capture moments of connection and loneliness.

J.J. Campbell describes the ferociousness of our modern highways, along with glimpses of bravado and defiant cheer in the face of illness.

Our own minds can be as untamed as any wild place, and several contributors’ work represent that reality or efforts to manage it.

Fernando Sorrentino posits a seemingly ludicrous situation, a man repeatedly hitting the narrator with an umbrella, which becomes a meditation on how we can get used to just about anything and then become anxious about any change, even a return to normalcy.

Ivars Balkits evokes how our minds wander while watching blue screens on old television sets or staring out the window. Debarati Sen probes the restless and absorbing nature of memory.

Aisha MLabo writes of the hidden passion burning within her creative mind. Z.I. Mahmud analyzes various narrative techniques behind the structures of internationally recognized literary works.

Poet Shine Ballard arranges words on a page, then trims them down to fit certain poetic structures. Mark Young crafts experiments with language that approach an internal logic.

Channie Greenberg exhibits a diverse collection of photographs unified by the color beige.

Some writers explore how and where we can experience the world’s wildness, or assert and defend our place within it.

Sayani Mukherjee suggests that tattoos on adults are a natural part of the process of claiming one’s physical body and identity that begins in childhood.

Clyde Borg stares intently into a painting, imagining and interacting beyond the flat canvas with the living woman who served as its model.

Gaurav Ojha points out how we can claim mental and psychological freedom from the world’s pressures. Gerard Sarnat points out the give-and-take needed for a marriage to stand the test of time, along with the many “subtle absurdities” of aging and educational pursuits.

Christina Chin and Matthew Defibaugh collaborate on haikus of autumnal scenes, reminding those in the Northern hemisphere that most of December is still fall. Meanwhile, Chimezie Ihekuna continues his Christmas countdown.

Finally, Mesfakus Salahin offers up a gentle blessing for those who live within the many layers of our world.

Christmas Time!

There comes this holiday
It’s not just any other day!
The world has placed a strong value on it
People are always on the verge of doing the feat
Gifts, presents and other great substances are exhibited
The celebration galore is always depicted
All and sundry are in the mood of merriment
It’s the time for enjoyment
Compliments of its season are heard everywhere
The best of complimenting outfits kids wear
Love for one another becomes obvious
The event is indeed glamorous
Celebrating the birth of the Savior of the world is the reason some religions mark this holiday
This happens on the Dec.25th day
To some, it’s a time for sober reflections;
To determine their New Year’s Resolutions
To others, it’s the time for rest;
To prepare their minds for the best
To the business people, it’s time for sales;
To make efforts to work out yielding profit scales.
It’s simply celebration time!
It’s simply called Christmas Time!




The Christmas Proper

Jingle Bells I hear
The Horse’s Ride I care
Christmas bunnies I yearn
Boxed presents I earn
Decorations I learn
Santa Claus I fear
The Amusement park I visit
The Grotto I sit
Friends and families I have fun with
The fun I live everyday with
The Festivity I can’t afford to falter
The very reason I recognize The Christmas Proper

a football party
at a house across the street—
yellow moon grows full



chickpeas & brown rice . . .
a spider climbs down a thread
to investigate



leaves are blown from trees—
the driver with a flashlight
asks for directions



in the chicken coop
a few mice scurry away . . .
the cold autumn wind



bare tree silhouettes
against the cloudy night sky—
the dog sniffs dead leaves



crescent moon at dusk—
the squirrels’ nests are revealed
in the bare branches



-------------



bio/graf

J. D. Nelson (b. 1971) experiments with words in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, worldwide, since 2002. He is the author of ten chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including Cinderella City (The Red Ceilings Press, 2012). Nelson’s poem, “to mask a little bird” was nominated for Best of the Net. Visit http://MadVerse.com for more information and links to his published work. His haiku blog is at http://JDNelson.net. Nelson lives in Colorado, USA.

There’s a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella

(Spanish title: Existe un hombre que tiene la costumbre de pegarme con un paraguas

en la cabeza)

(Translated from the Spanish by Clark M.
Zlotchew)

by Fernando Sorrentino

There’s a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It makes exactly five years today that he’s been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn’t stand it; now I’m used to it.

I don’t know his name. I know he’s average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I’m writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.

On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn’t even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments
of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. 

He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella. His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn’t
exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don’t feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance.

Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.

Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow.

The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so, that I thought if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.

That’s why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella.

I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, “Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella.” It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers, and begun asking
embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.

I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with
that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor,
impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.

I got off —we got off— at Pacífico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue.

Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, “What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?” But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle.
Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.

But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn’t happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.

From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that
at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.

Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I’ve asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even —God forgive me— umbrella blows. He would
meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying
out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.

Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don’t know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me.

Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.

On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn’t live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps
when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.

Fernando Sorrentino
http://www.fernandosorrentino.com
fersdelaakd@gmail.com

Clark M. Zlotchew
clark.zlotchew@fredonia.edu