The Cubelli Lagoon [La albufera de Cubelli] by Fernando Sorrentino translated from the Spanish by Michele Aynesworth <micheletexas@hotmail.com>, <michele@mckayaynesworth.com> In the southeast region of the provincial plains of Buenos Aires, you might come across the Cubelli Lagoon, familiarly known as the “Lake of the Dancing Alligator.” This popular name is expressive and graphic, but — just as Doctor Ludwig Boitus established — it is inaccurate. In the first place, “lagoon” and “lake” are distinct hydrographic occurrences. Secondly, though the alligator — Caiman yacare (Daudin), of the Alligatoridae family — is common to America, this lagoon is not the habitat for any species of alligator. Its waters are extremely salty, and its fauna and flora are what you would expect for creatures that inhabit the sea. For this reason, it cannot be considered unusual that in this lagoon a population of approximately 130 marine crocodiles are to be found. The “marine crocodile,” that is, the Crocodilus porosus (Schneider), is the largest of all living reptiles. It commonly reaches a length of some seven meters (23 feet), weighing more than a ton. Doctor Boitus affirms having seen, along the coasts of Malaysia, several of them that were over nine meters (30 feet) in length, and, in fact, has taken and brought back photographs that supposedly prove the existence of such large individuals. But, as they were photographed in marine waters, without external points of reference, it is not possible to determine precisely if those crocodiles were truly the size attributed to them by Doctor Boitus. It would of course be absurd to doubt the word of an investigator with such a brilliant career (even though his language is rather baroque), but scientific rigor requires that the facts be validated by inflexible methods that, in this case, were not put to use. Well then, it happens that the crocodiles of the Cubelli Lagoon possess exactly the taxonomic characteristics of those that live in the waters around India, China, and Malaysia; hence, they should by all rights be called marine crocodiles or Crocodili porosi. However, there are some differences,which Doctor Boitus has divided into morphological traits and ethological traits. Among the former, the most important (or, better said, the only) is size. Whereas the marine crocodile of Asia can be up to seven meters long, the one we have in the Cubelli Lagoon scarcely reaches, in the best of cases, two meters (6 feet 6 inches), measuring from the tip of the snout to the tip of the tail. Regarding its ethology, this crocodile is “fond of musically harmonized movements” according to Boitus (or, to use the simpler term preferred by those in the town of Cubelli, “dancing”). As anyone knows, as long as crocodiles are on land, they are as harmless as a flock of pigeons. They can only hunt and kill when in the water, which is their vital element. They trap their prey between their toothy jaws, then rotate rapidly, spinning until their victim is dead; their teeth have no masticatory function, being designed exclusively to imprison and swallow a victim whole. If we go to the shores of the Cubelli Lagoon and start to play music, having previously chosen something appropriate for dancing, right away we will see that — let’s not say all — almost all the crocodiles rise out of the water and, once on land, begin to dance to the beat of the tune in question. For such anatomical and behavioral reasons, this saurian has received the name Crocodilus pusillus saltator (Boitus). Their tastes are varied and eclectic, and they do not seem to distinguish between esthetically worthy music and music of little merit. Popular tunes delight them no less than symphonic compositions for ballet. These crocodiles dance in an upright position, balancing only on their hind legs, reaching an average height of one meter, seventy centimeters (5 feet 8 inches). In order not to drag on the ground, their tails rise at an acute angle, roughly parallel to their spines. At the same time, their front limbs (which we could well call hands) follow the beat with various amusing gestures, while their yellow teeth form a wide smile, exuding enthusiasm and satisfaction. Some townspeople are not in the least attracted by the idea of dancing with crocodiles, but many others do not share this aversion. It’s a fact, every Saturday when the sun goes down they put on their party clothes and gather on the shore of the lagoon.There the Cubelli Social Club has set up everything necessary to make the evening unforgettable. Likewise, people can dine in the restaurant that has arisen not far from the dance floor. The arms of the crocodile are rather short and cannot embrace the body of their partner. The gentleman or lady dancing with the male or female crocodile that has chosen them places both hands on one of their partner’s shoulders. To achieve this, one’s arms must be stretched to the maximum at a certain distance; as the snout of a crocodile is quite pronounced, one must take the precaution of standing as far back as possible. Though disagreeable episodes have occasionally occurred (such as nasal excision, explosion of ocular globes, or decapitation), it must not be forgotten that, as their teeth may contain the remains of cadavers, the breath of this reptile is far from being attractive. According to Cubellian legend, occupying the small island in the center of the lagoon are the king and queen of the crocodiles, who it seems have never left it. They say they are each more than two centuries old and, perhaps owing to their advanced age, perhaps owing simply to whim, they have never wished to participate in the dances organized by the Social Club. The get-togethers do not last much past midnight, for at that hour the crocodiles begin to tire, and maybe to get a little bored; in addition, they feel hungry and, as their access to the restaurant is prohibited, they want to return to the water in search of food. When no more crocodiles remain on terra firma, the ladies and gentlemen go back to town, rather tired and a little sad, but with the hope that, maybe at the next dance, or perhaps at a later one, the crocodiles’ king, or the queen, or even both together, might abandon their island for a few hours and participate in the party. If this were to happen, each gentleman, though he takes care not to show it, harbors the illusion that the queen of the crocodiles will choose him for her dance partner; the same is true of all the ladies, who dream of dancing with the king. 1086 words “La albufera de Cubelli” was originally published in Cuadernos del Minotauro (edited by Valentín Pérez Venzalá), Año IV, No. 6, Madrid, 2008, pp. 117-120. The present English version was translated from a slightly modified text.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Story from Jim Meirose
Ex-Parthenon Girlyfished Gateboy: Donnie Jr. Eyes closed, hand pressed to a stone, this could be anywhere. Your yard, or halfway around the world. Anywhere. From the touch of a stone, can you tell where you are? Can you do it? You, sir? Or you, Ma’am? Can you tell, can you? Maybe from its cold or its hot or its in-between. Maybe from its flat of its curve or that—that tiny, fine, can’t be seen start of a crack you’d never of known of, had you not touched it. Pop. Don’t you feel more here and now, now that you’ve touched it? More present, aware? More alive, maybe—but, okay, now, we got to move on. Hands off, eyes open, stand straight. ‘op. How you feel? They opened their eyes, as their tour guide suggested. And, yes, they still stood on the Acropolis; by the Parthenon; on the vacation of a lifetime. I feel great, yes. Me too. I feel good. Okay, yah yo wash—but, hey now. Pardon me? Why great, now? asked the guide, and after a slight pause, he added, Tell me; how come? A moment’s hesitation—they glanced at each other—odd, this was odd, but, go with it. It’s just that—to be here, now—is really great. It’s that simple, said the one. And you? The same, said the other. Come on, then. Let’s move. We’re right on time, let’s not waste it. Okay. So, what’s next? Hold it! What? How come you asked that? I, uh—I don’t know. Never mind. Oh. Good. Okay. Come on, then. As they began walking along beside the guide, they both thought, what’s with this guy? Oh, how lucky we’ve been, to been given a guide like this, from the big pool of guides at the Acropolis Walking Tour check-in desk, pop p’ ‘o’? Yah, yes. Look—he’s saying nothing. This whole thing’s going south. He’s off. God; they should have politely asked for a different guide when he came out to meet them, after they’d paid, and they saw his nametag; a large, roughly torn to a semi-square shape, scrap of manila envelope paper, pinned to his shirt, shouting out loudly, in sloppy hand lettering, I am Donnie Jr. Ex-Parthenon Girlyfished Gateboy. He stood smiling before them. Happy enough, but—so, well, the tag; yes, it seems off, but, no. No, no, no it is fine. They were far from home. Many things were different here, and, once the actual tour began, all would be fine—I mean the way he came up smiling. But, it had not gone that way. He turned toward the entrance to the Acropolis, and trudged along slowly, head down—saying nothing. As they began to encounter interesting structures, carvings, and more and more beauty with each step, the guide stayed head down, trudging, saying nothing. After finally stopping, and surprisingly swooning to them of the beauty of laying their hands on and experiencing a stone, he moved on, silent once more. They followed, awkwardly lost—when, would the—tour start? They did not want to make a scene, but—what the hell was wrong with this guy— Hoke! he snapped sharply, startling them awake—so, wannyway, eh? Then, pointing down hard at the ground before their feet, he added, Anyway. Why’d the hell’s you want to come here, anybutt, young sir a’ s’ ‘ung, you too, madame? Buh hold it, uh, no. Don’t answer. I think—I think I know. Let me guess. I mean, I, right now, right here—stop here—see me looking down? As I look down, in the ground there’s your house where you felt you needed this vacation away from, I mean, ah ah, am I right? See there; I am right, you are on vacation, are you not? They looked around, but, held their tongues. They glimpsed others nearby, staring. This was—terribly awkward. Uh, who? their guide asked sternly—what’s wrong? Are you, or aren’t you? I feel you are not. Are you not? I do feel you’re not. And if so, no’ not, by my Buck, I’ll be thwarted! Impolite to thwart the guide sirs. Very so im-mpolite. So; come on, and tell me. Are you here on vacation? Uh, yes. That’s great! How’s it gone so far? Very good. Good. Hey, you know, I bet—I bet you don’t really have a reason to be on vacation at all, do you? What? Here’s; vacation’s prob’ly something you just do once in a while, w’out ever stopping to think, why are we doing this—oh, sure, I get that fully; completely, and fully, y, ye yes, ess’, I get that real strong off you two, ‘ctually, but—I also do many things myself, for no good reason. I think it’s a shame, that’s all a waste. An’ you know, a waste leads to much time spent doing many things for not just bad reasons, but no reasons at all—which is-so ‘uch worse! And, hey—you end up at things which you’d never do, if you just stopped dead right there, and asked, why am I about to do this, well, heck; that would be one thing. But, if you’re like me, you end up stuck at doing, because, when you wait until the only way to properly phrase the question would be, why am I doing this—meaning this thing you’re doing right now—it will be too late, because you’re already doing it. You know? What I know, what I mean—so, you know what I mean? Yes no, but—it’s a shame. Do ya’ think? Make sense, eh? Just a little mayb’ ‘ess, anyway? They’d about had enough. Halfway through that mess, they’d stopped even listening. This was nonsense. The direct opposite of what that tour group ahead’s probably being told by their guide, like, The Acropolis was built from 437-432 BC, but its construction was abandoned during the Peloponnesian War, and never completed. Or, of that other group further ahead—that one—no doubt being told the ages of those walls, or these carvings, or those big blocky boulders. But not us, oh-h, oh no, no no; not us. And, further still, see that well-built pith helmeted guide animatedly telling her assigned group something no doubt like, the Acropolis of Athens was turned back over to the Greeks in 1822 during the Greek War of Independence—and all over all more and more good good stuff. But. Not us. Not us. Why not us? See him there. Silly and worthless, spewing his nonsense—like cumbana cumbama, how cumbana never completed, oh gee of, gee. Hey! What? How come you two look like you do? They glare away. Bit lips. Come on. How come? No! Enough! That’s that! The guide jumped as they turned from him, heading fast back toward the slope, down to the tour signup desk. Get there fast, loudly complain! Pop, knack, ‘n turn, and half-run from him fast---thank God, thank God. But. Know that he’s following. Though they hope he’s not, actually; hope he’s stuck to that same spot back up the hill, screwed tight down int’ his ‘razy self, but, at the same time, they knew; felt him fast following; wanting to know why; how come how come how come, so, hurry up, hurry—not following and following simu-simltanealitee’s evil and wrong unnatural and impossible hic hic faster, pass— No! Do not care! No! Enough of this. Enough. Fix this day; make it all go away. They picked up the pace, when they heard him pursuing them. He’s angry, confused. So angry, he’s started spooling out from himself faster ‘nd louder this time, calling loud toward them. Hey! Hey! Hold up! Why’s the hell ‘nybody decent’s come here anymonk, anymore, ‘nnywaay, for Christ’s sake? Heads turned—they kept moving; it all went on. Hey! Hey! This fancy oss-cropulous’s just like a big rubbly tumblejunk spew-down ‘s low hills all around. That’s all to see here. S’nots nee way wise impressive, gah gahh. Stupid to come! Ask me. For why, mean who’d the hell ‘nt t’ come here? Keep on. No one’s watching ‘r staring. Keep on. Hey! he cried again. Wait! Who the hell, who the hell, mu God, like, lik’, like, this place’s no good, it’s crap! I got to tell you! It’s crap, like when I spat out my marbly white cottage cheese that time, without chewing at all, because I suddenly realized I wasn’t really hungry at all, there you go, there you are—down the rol o’ table looked just like this place! Just my common table, chunked over with white globs—rubbly boulder-globs attached ‘way from nothing—as this place’s seen from—any old distance. Even from space, as that’s also possible. Gee! This is a very ugly place, actually, you know! he yelled at them. No, no. Faster, fast—don’t listen, keep moving down faster, They came closer to actually running the last slope to the tour desk, but he’s right there behind, his footsteps grasped at them, but there’s the desk, there it is, and—thank God he stopped shouting. Thank God he’s got no more— Wait! Stop! Everyone all ‘round looked. Why are you running from me? Say nothing. No. Just keep going. The end is in sight. Why are you running from me? Shut up shut up n’ keep going, keep on, no no from no no no away, just keep on but— A shriek tore the air. They froze Please do not walk away-y-y! Plea-a-a-se! They turned. There he was; on his knees, hunched over, body heaving, exhausted. Why do you hate me so, he sobbed loudly. My God. I asked you, I asked you, I asked you—why. Why do you hate me so? They stepped back; stood mortified; no; countless eyes turned their way. They’re the center, the center for all the eyes, faces, tight lips, saying, What did you do to him? Why did you do it? But, nothing’s the answer, nothing. We did nothing. Do not stare— But something’s been done to him—listen! Listen! How come? How come? How come? How come you did this to him? A tall female guide, from the rightmost stunned group, had rushed to him, taken his arm, and whispered mildly into his face, something no doubt calming. See, but not hear. Seeing, not hearing; hearing, not seeing, or; not seeing and hearing both—deaf and dumb to it all. Which is worse, God? Which, God, is worse? They turned away, headed down the slope, eyes averted from all. No one is looking. Guilty of nothing. Nothing has happened. Right now’s all there is. The desk comes up finally, and so. They talked to the same man they’d paid coming in. They told him, they said, it was terrible. They told him, That guide is—just crazy. He’s no guide at all. Had us on edge the whole time. Why on earth do you use him? Why do you keep him on? And on and on—the man listened thoughtfully. He nodded yes, understanding. His face soft, face round, nodding, so kindly, so serene. Flecks of flush here and there; a condition perhaps, but—probably not. He said to their eyes, softly, Sorry—then leaned a bit closer, speaking quietly. My apologies. Of course, you’ll get a refund, but—the poor man. He’s a nephew of the owners. He’s not well. I—it’s hard to say, but he’s just maybe—got two weeks left, if that. But—he loves the place. Been a guide since a boy. We thought he could last almost to the end, but—every day, the side effects of the drugs keeping him going get worse. But hey. Never mind. Sorry. Here. Your money—here. As they took the money, he paused. Eyes met. Enjoy the rest of your vacation, he said. Athens is beautiful, this time of year. What. They turned and walked from the desk, hearing him. Athens is beautiful, this time of year. Beautiful, this time of year. Athens, you know? You know? Beautiful. This time of year. An hour later, they’re in their room. The world lay silent. Eyes closed, hands pressed; they could be anywhere. Their yard, or halfway around the world. Anywhere. The feel of the floor down here, under, and the air pressing in all around, and the silence, ask; can you tell where you are, sir? Can you, sir? Or you, Ma’am? Can you tell? Can you? Maybe from our cold or our hot or our—just remember—that tiny fine can’t be seen start of a crack you’d never—no no—expected was there, when just passing over, but—when slowed, stopped, stop; pay attention—can you feel it? Can you? Can you? Can you feel it? Yes—yes. Great. But. How come?
Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna
The Tri-angles of Christmas wishes (From me, them and you (to yourself) IF: I wish all the best in this Christmas for you, They wish all that Christmas can best offer you, then, it will not be out of place to say this to yourself: ‘’I wish me all the best Christmas can offer’’ These are the simple Tri-angle of Christmas wishes
Poetry from Strider Marcus Jones
WEEDS LEFT weeds left, wilt in the sun without work and water. their seeds are the wild flowers, waiting for volcanic wind and ash to fall, so the fertile cinders can colonise herbaceous borders ending the old age of selfish sediment treading it down in molecules of time. another marxist dons his trenchcoat and tears pages from his red book planting the old words of revolution in minds of homogenous compost. over-privileged gallows begin to swing. bullets sweat in their chambers waiting for the right heads. THE DARKEST FLOWER IS THE EVENING again consensual persuasions make sensual equations as we smoke and share a think, then the same as she bends over the shingle sink breasts slapping on bowl and rim, peachey buttocks yapping as i slide in and out of her velvet purse each time deeper than the first two parts making one perfection of mental physical connection. outsides i saw two magpies in the branches of a tree barbed tower watching our sharing eyes shape fractured liberty slipping the shackles of feudal power. in this then, i know how all of when you're gone reduces me to being one and the darkest flower is the evening opened by your scent giving everything and receiving mine in mind and meldings meant. THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES when words don't come easy they make do with silence and find something in nothing to say to each other when the absinthe runs out. his glass and ego are bigger than hers, his elbows sharper, stabbing into the table and the chambers of her heart cobalt clown without a smile. she looks away with his misery behind her eyes and sadness on her lips, back into her curves and the orange grove summer of her dress worn and blown by sepia time where she painted her cockus giganticus lying down naked for her brush and skin, mingling intimate scents undoing and doing each other. for some of us, living back then is more going forward than living in now and sitting here- at this table, with these glasses standing empty of absinthe, faces wanting hands to be a bridge of words and equal peace as Guernica approaches. LOVE WANES LIKE OLD NEWS she left, without remorse or love to lose- and cleft the music from the blues. bereft, in melancholy mental muse- the theft of love wanes like old news, and jests through pain to wear in new shoes- the rest, just words in ink and oral clues. POETS IN THE BACKFIELD Stay a while? The subliminal cuts are coming through These days of deadly boredom, And poets in the backfield Writing Something Interesting. Hardy,would not like today, Life's become an angry play; And our deoxyribonucleic acid Carries no imagination, That's not already put there By a rival TV station. I can hear you saying, Yes,but,we have the right to choose: A color,and a ball of string- Or poets in the backfield Writing Something Interesting. You said: "The Golden Bird eats Fish In South America And most of the peasants let him, Because of Bolivar." Yet,millions starved in Gulag camps, And Czechs cried fears when Russian tanks, Thundered through their traumoid streets Pretending not to be elite. As one old soldier put it: "The West and East preach different dreams, But ride the same black limousines." Stay a while? These sheets are cold Without your sighing skin; And this poet in the backfield Is writing Nothing Interesting. Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, his five published books of poetry https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms. His poetry has been published in numerous publications including: Dreich Magazine; The Racket Journal; Trouvaille Review; dyst Literary Journal; Impspired Magazine; Melbourne Culture Corner; Literary Yard Journal; The Honest Ulsterman; Poppy Road Review; The Galway Review; Cajun Mutt Press; Rusty Truck Magazine; Rye Whiskey Review; Deep Water Literary Journal; The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; A New Ulster; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.
Poetry from John Thomas Allen
The Moon Hosts
Death is a vocation.
It has abandoned silos in the North.
It is to these darkly born Areas we still travel,
bent back as St. Sebastian in sin’s queasy light.
On bored nights, funeral trains circle us.
The conductors stuff cats in their habits as penance,
and by their wise blood Charon is humbled.
By this delivery, Lazarus was brought to die
finally and struggling, giving voice
to the final Word. Death wraps eager hands
with reptile skin. It protects its children. Still
as sullied Hosts, crooked reeds bind
an ill choir, the darkness is disturbed and moons rise
in the eyes of the weak and willing.
Death is not staid, he’s fast spreading, sudden
as wildfire on a derelict’s blanket.
Death’s a ministry and the prayer books
it distributes are filled with dark braille,
a kind that could cure blindness
but can’t be seen for very long.
John Thomas Allen is a 39-year-old poet and hopes to one day camp out in the Poe Museum in Baltimore. He likes hopes the political atmosphere in the US thins out, and that experimental poetry will continue on no matter what happens.
Poetry from Kyle Hemmings
Synchronicity Two caged parrots mimicking a false climax Tone Deaf In the fading light the bare trees whisper your half thought-out thoughts The Last Visit Growing child-like & hungry in her lonely reindeer eyes Inflation Warblers living on dollar store crumbs The Noisy Nude Painted in gouache & several variations of pink the nude in the picture giggles as the art critics walk by.
Kyle Hemmings has work published in Otoliths, Pure Slush. Potato Soup Journal,and elsewhere He loves 50s sci-fi films and 60s garage bands.
Artwork from Channie Greenberg
