Welcome to November’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 at Woodstock’s Pizza in downtown Davis, CA, time TBA.

Second, our friend and collaborator Rui Carvalho has announced the opening of 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!

Now for this issue, which provides glimpses behind the scenes into dreams, thoughts and processes behind the world we see every day.

In his short story “The Cubelli Lagoon,” Fernando Sorrentino probes the depths of a mysterious lake rumored to be riddled with alligators.

J.J. Campbell begins his poetic offerings with an assertion that the rest of the natural world remains more powerful than humans. He then comments on human nature, looking at everyday scenes and letting his mind wander. Emmanuel Umeji does something similar in his poetry, where the speaker stares up into the sky and reflects on life and death.

Chloe Schoenfeld describes the calm and moist atmosphere after a rainstorm.

Chimezie Ihekuna continues his Christmas countdown while Norman J. Olson contributes more of his detailed and thoughtful sketches and oil landscapes. Olson says his is “not an art of societal amelioration” yet the attention he gives to people and places in his work encourages viewers to notice their depths and regard them with respect.

Damon Hubbs explores scientific research in a slightly macabre way, with poems about the skull of dead 17th century physician Sir Thomas Browne. John Thomas Allen also touches on the mystery of death through a poem where the lines seem to wind you down to the grave. Mesfakus Salahin presents death as the poignant but inevitable end of all relationships.

In contrast, the flowers Channie Greenberg photographs are very much vibrant and alive, even when cut and displayed in a vase.

Lorraine Caputo also conveys how humans interact with and harvest from nature in her literary sketch of a large commercial banana farm in Latin America.

Daniel de Culla gives a bawdier take on nature writing, with a piece on sexy pumpkins and Halloween traditions in his native Spain.

In a different vein, Sayani Mukherjee builds a scene and a mood around a single rose in a vase in a person’s room.

J.D. DeHart presents vignettes shaped by memory, where he describes his amusement or wonder at encounters with horses, strange noises, etc along with conveying the scenes themselves.

John Steirer also draws from ordinary life as a source of grace and amusement in his series of reflections on middle age, teaching, and learning.

Strider Marcus Jones evokes the background rhythm of life even as great global struggles for power and liberation take place: seeds waiting to germinate, couples falling in and out of love, poets writing and hoping for interesting content.

Pippa Phillips and Jerome Berglund distill experience past the vignette into single thoughts and nearly subconscious observations.

Kyle Hemmings captures moments of irony, poignancy and surprise in his tiny poetic vignettes. John Culp explores his personal consciousness in a thoughtful piece.

Clive Gresswell brews up a heady mix of language and thought in his poems.

Mary Grimm evokes a dream experience with a title reflecting the nonlinearity of the narrative.

Mark Young’s artwork also eschews direct representation to focus on the effects of juxtaposing contrasting colors and visual elements.

Poet John Tustin writes elegantly of characters brought together into the same space who get driven apart or don’t end up interacting. As in Mark Young’s work, the beauty lies in the implied connections and contrasts.

Jim Meirose evokes a surreal atmosphere with a vacationing couple and their unusual tour guide at the Acropolis.

Christopher Bernard’s poem comments on people of differing income levels sharing urban space, encouraging the homeless and dispossessed to walk with the same self-assurance as the wealthy.

Olawe Opeyemi’s poem shows a speaker mourning sorrow and injustice he sees from his window.

Adepoju Timileyin’s characters also observe each other, speculating and empathizing from a distance. Sometimes they actually interact, though, as he does with his grandmother. In his final piece, Timileyin points to writing as a way to connect.

Shilpa Barti also brings together disparate artistic elements, with the effect of celebrating creative growth in nature and through literature and music.

Z.I. Mahmud also turns to literature as a subject, through his scholarly essay on the global and historical impact of Indian classics.

Jaylan Salah interviews author Joanne Harris (most famously the creator of the book that inspired the movie Chocolat) and discusses her themes of cuisine, creativity, small towns and tolerance/acceptance as well as how these themes come through in her later, darker works.

Mary Beth O’Connor, in her memoir From Junkie to Judge, illustrates how personal struggles such as addiction and abuse affect people of any class, race, personality or profession.

Awodele Habeeb touches on the social dimensions of personal struggle. He points out the inadequacy and cruelty of telling young people that education will prepare them for a better future if society does not provide avenues for them to use the skills they gain.

That sentiment is a driving force behind our New Year’s Eve gathering and choice of organizations to support. We do hope that Synchronized Chaos Magazine can play a part in opening up pathways towards allowing society to benefit from the creative gifts of all its members.

SCAR OF RAINBOWS

The moon as displayed
by night wears a ribbon
around its chest
The stars fits into bikinis
Each time I hid and watch the
Sky through my windowpanes,
They dance in barley
Each time harmattan knocks
At the door, there is always
A stretch scar on my face
That shows that I belong
To the sky
Mama's broken portrait
Is fading upon me
Father's beautiful stare from
The broken frame catches
My mood into tears of dawn
The rainbow in the sky
Was made a lollipop to the sun
Each day I see the rainbow,
It reminds me of grave
As it fades in all its colours,
So be me someday on my bed

Chocolate-Infused Dreams
Conversations with French-English writer Joanne Harris

There is a first moment for everything: The first kiss, the first film that moves to the core, the first song that changes the perspective on what music sounds like, and the first book that stands out from the whole library of hardcovers.

First time I discovered Joanne Harris was through a used copy of her novel Chocolat. I admit that I liked the film; not loved, liked. And was curious to see what the novel would read like after such an interesting film. And what I found when I read the first sentence, was way beyond my expectations. Something out of a vivid dream, a kaleidoscopic mesh of sounds, tastes, textures, and scents. Harris’s novels were not books to be read as part of a reading marathon for a virtual book club. They were immersive texts where feelings and scents coalesced to create a magical realism that didn’t include mythical creatures or breathtaking kingdoms. Her magic was dark and drenched in hot caramel, feminine and mystical. Her writing drew me in and I had to read “The Lollipop Shoes”, “Peaches for Monsieur le Curé”, and “The Strawberry Thief”, then ventured off to some of her darker stuff such as “Blueeyed Boy”. 

First things first: Joanne Harris is a French-English writer. She studied Modern and Mediaeval Languages at Cambridge and was a teacher for 15 years. Her most famous novel Chocolat was turned into an Oscar-nominated film starring Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp. Her work infuses magical realism with religious themes, femininity and misogyny, motherhood, witchcraft, and food. Food, scents, sensual descriptions, and themes are central to Joanne Harris’s world. She weaves the narrative without a kaleidoscope of scents, tastes, textures, and emotions. Her novels are easy reads in terms of pace and narrative, but they are hard to get out of. Readers get lost sometimes in the delicious darkness of the text and are usually left with a bittersweet aftertaste when they have come to the last page of the tale. Like dark chocolate and pink champagne, Joanne Harris’s writing is both luxurious and dark, yin and yang, bright and cocooned.

I became infatuated with Harris, a woman so far away, living in what I envisioned as an orchard French heaven where the air smelled of vanilla and hot melting chocolate, and tasted like the finest wine one could ever drink. I read her “The Little Book of Chocolat” and was mesmerized by the potency of this confection in all its forms and combinations. I wanted to learn more about Harris. Was her creative process always that delectable? How did the woman who created “Chocolat” dive into dark territory and come up with “Blueeyed Boy”? What was there to expect more from her? I sought her and communicated with her via email, asking her about her craft and her experiences as a female writer who has a distinct voice and writing style. I wondered why she chose to become a writer in the first place, a question I like to ask often even though I struggle with the answer to it sometimes,

“Because it’s what I do best. Stories exist and thrive in many media, and writing happens to be mine. Words, correctly used, can be music, movement, and performance, as well as so many other things. Words are power.”

Since most of the novels that I loved by Joanne Harris centered around food or had food as -almost- the main protagonist, I had to ask her why she chose the culinary space as an integral part of her creative universe and whether she believed in certain foods as seductive or “sinful” as they are described in some of her novels such as the Vianne Rocher universe companions,

“The concept of food as something sinful comes from a very privileged and toxic place, and I don’t subscribe to it. But food has personal associations for all of us, and it’s something that everyone can share and understand. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they relate to food, how they celebrate, whether or not they cook, and how they remember the food of their childhood. As such, for a writer, food is a good way of exploring a character’s personality, relationships, past, and culture. “

I wondered if she weaved magic into her storytelling because she believed that the modern materialistic world needed a little magic to move forward or spice things up. Her answers, as simple as tactful as one wouldn’t expect from a writer whose worlds oozed with dreaminess and sensuality, surprised me,

“I don’t think of magic in that way. It’s not about making a story more exciting; it’s a way of seeing the world differently. Magic in my fiction is essentially about perception, deception, and transformation. It’s about how we see the world, other people, and ourselves, and how we go about changing those things – hopefully, for the better.”

In her novel "Peaches for Monsieur Le Cure" -the third from the Vianne Rocher universe- she had written about Islam; a community most individuals are cautious while writing about, so I asked her what drew her to that world and the idea of fasting in Ramadan, especially since she already played the theme of abstaining from food and drink in “Chocolat”,

“I’ve written about traditions of feasting and fasting under Catholicism – why not then under Islam? I live in a very cosmopolitan place, with a large and friendly community of Muslims, who helped me gain the confidence to tell the story I needed to tell as honestly as I could. I wanted to write about two communities in opposition to each other through ignorance and suspicion, how they have far more in common with each other than they initially think; and how the communities are brought together by compassion, friendship, and mutual respect.”

Since she always went back to Vianne Rocher and dug deeper into the story, I wondered what was about this universe that she as a writer couldn’t resist. It had always fascinated me how some characters had a firm grip on their creators and were hard to let go, and since Harris had played that game masterfully already, I needed to ask how and why she did it,

“I wrote Chocolat as the mother of a child of five, and that mother-daughter relationship lies at the very heart of the novel. The subsequent books have followed the lives of Vianne and her daughters, driven by my own experiences with my daughter. Though I am not Vianne, I do have this in common with her, which is why I feel connected to her in this way.”

I struggled with times when my gender stood in the way of being taken seriously as a writer and I asked Joanne if she faced a similar situation. Her answer was curt and fierce as would be expected from someone so opinionated and driven,

“There’s sexism in all areas of the publishing industry, of course; but the idea that women writers are to be taken less seriously than men is most often held by ignorant people who don’t know very much about literature...”

Even when asking her about the movie adaptation of “Chocolat”, Harris seemed distant, detached from the whole process. It amazed me because I would have been quite the opposite had one of my -ahem, future- novels gotten adapted into a film or a miniseries. Her sense of creativity enthralled me and deepened my respect for her,

“Fortunately, the author isn’t the one responsible for the making of a movie adaptation of their work. I watched the process from afar, with a couple of short visits to the movie set during the filming. It was lots of fun, and I got to know the cast and the director, but I would never expect a movie to perfectly embody a novel; they are such very different media that it would be unfair to make the comparison.”

I couldn’t talk to Joanne Harris without mentioning one of her scariest writings to date; Blueeyed Boy. It was a horrifying novel, a dark psychological tale of poisonous familial relationships and the dark recesses of the internet. It gave me nightmares. I wondered how she ventured into that dark place and asked about her inspiration especially since on her official website she wrote about the inspiration behind this particular novel in cryptic, fascinating prose,

“The role of a writer is to observe and reflect humanity. There’s plenty of darkness in the world to observe, and some of it should inevitably find its way into my stories. Monsters are not figures of fantasy: they walk among us every day. Through stories we learn to defeat them, and sometimes, to understand them too...”

Like all writers, I asked Harris whether she would like to see another of her writings as a film on the big screen or -more appropriately now- a Netflix/Amazon/Hulu miniseries,

“It would be an interesting experience, and I’d love to see it happen. I think most of my books are too complex to be filmic and are therefore better suited to being made into a series than a stand-alone movie. But those are not my decisions to make: I can only watch and hope.”

Since “online” according to Joanne Harris in one of her interviews is a “small community” as good as any French village or a Catholic school, I had to ask why she was fascinated with small communities in general,

“Small communities contain all the elements of potential drama, and their chemistry is so volatile that it often takes only one person to arrive or to leave to make a significant difference.”

As someone who found multiple taboo-breaking elements in Harris’s writings, I asked whether she viewed herself as a writer through that lens or if it was just my perception of her work,

“I don’t approach my work in that way: if I have challenged taboos or establishment ideas, it is because I am temperamentally drawn to asking difficult questions, as well as being temperamentally opposed to intolerance and prejudice.”

I am a firm believer in divine femininity. I read too much into the concept and usurp the wisdom of writers and researchers like Clarissa Pinkola Estes. That’s why I saw the three integral female protagonists in “Chocolat” - Anouk, Vianne, and Zozie, as different sides to women as seen in folklore or mythology. I asked Harris to comment,

“Folklore tends to favor archetypes, and yes, it’s possible to see my characters as such – the mother, the wise child, the temptress, the witch – but these archetypal elements exist alongside their very human, very singular characteristics. I want my characters to live and breathe, not simply serve a story. “

I had to ask a writer as mesmerizing as Harris to express her sources of inspiration. Even though in different cultures, inspiration is a foreign concept -ask Christopher Doyle about how Asian filmmakers work from a place of enigma rather than inspiration- to Harris, the concept resonated and she was generous enough to share with me hers,

“Inspiration comes from everywhere. Books, current affairs, art, music, theatre, overheard conversations, personal experience, and sometimes even dreams. I try not to set limits on how and where I find my ideas, but I know that to make art, you need to experience art, and to write about life, you need to live life to the full.

[On her most inspiring writers] I loved Ray Bradbury as a child: as an adult, I am still in awe of his energy; his love of language; his compassion.”

Middle-Age Superpowers

Can read difficult books even in dim light. Can overeat at lunch and then again at dinner even after having a big breakfast. Can correctly use affect and effect, accept and except, there, their, and they’re. Can get laundry clean without separating whites and colors. Can hold back intestinal gas during job interview, usually. Can win footrace against four-year-old niece if given proper training and warm-up time. Can return mangled paper clip to moderately usable shape with only his bare hands and pliers. Can pass badly dressed teenagers on the sidewalk and withhold comment. Can understand that superpowers are overrated.



Words to Warm a Teacher's Heart

Do we get extra credit for showing up to class? You weren’t kidding about that exam thing? Syllabus? What syllabus? There’s a textbook? My paper is only a month late. I missed class—did we do anything important? You gave me a B—why do you hate me? My paper is about the dangers of seatbelts. I saw it on the internet, so it must be true. I missed ten weeks of class. Is there any way I can still get an A? How much will I get when I sell the textbook back? Do you get paid for this?


Lies his Fifth-Grade Teacher Tried to Make him Believe

Every day, most people on earth pass within twenty feet of a murderer. Human bodies contain three cents worth of minerals. The average fast food hamburger contains 1.7 ounces of bovine hair. While sleeping, human beings swallow or inhale an average of eight spiders during the course of a lifetime. The average bottle of ketchup contains 1.3 worms per cubic inch. Turkeys are far more intelligent than chickens. The Russians established a colony on Mars in 1963, then abandoned it due to lack of funding in 1967. Too much television causes eyeballs to explode. He would never amount to anything.


Everyday Ironies #3

The Mercedes has a vanity plate: AVG JOE. The beer truck is badly parked. After the long skid on the icy road, he has a pretty good idea what his last words will be. Home sick from work, she notices that every clock in the house tells a different time. The snow-covered street is named for a tropical fruit. From the prison by the freeway, a lone inmate near the double-fences waves hello. There is nothing good on television, every channel, for about three hours now. The guy at the bus stop is arguing with the telephone poll and losing.


Everyday Ironies #4

In the bank vault corner, somehow, there’s a scattering of autumn leaves. Fluttering in the breeze, her butterfly earrings. On the lake, autumn leaves float through the reflection of autumn leaves. Just beyond the deer crossing sign, there’s a bear. The neighbors’ bad-tempered cat is dog-eared. The only quiet moment of the day, being third in line for the drive-thru cheeseburger. In the middle of the argument, even his stomach growls. The “back in five minutes” note has been on his office door for about three hours now. Stuck in the breakdown lane, she finally started to understand her life.

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? 

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.

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.