The Man who Roamed the World

Upcoming Australian Talent Jackson Gallagher Speaks on Photography, On-screen Machismo and Being an Icon of Modern Fan Culture

(Jackson Gallagher – credit: Oli Sansom)

One might try a little harder if they plan to scare Jackson Gallagher.

Going from one extreme to the other seems to be his game. From directing serious documentaries to flirting on-screen with countless love interests on the famous Aussie soap opera “Home and Away”, Gallagher is not what you’d expect from your average 26-year-old Australian. Being a farm boy and growing up on a farm in Daylesford (a small town in Victoria, Australia) still didn’t keep him from barely escaping death during an ice-climbing trip in New Zealand, and traveling deep in the desert on photography missions with the “Act for Peace” organization, Gallagher documented experiences of the Syrian refugees in Talbiah Camp in Jordan and Al-Amari Camp in Ramallah.

What drew him to the experience was mostly, “Talking to the men and seeing how despite everything they try to sustain their integrity, how their roles -as providers for their homes- were affected and it hurts them. As the conversation goes on you could see through the cracks how intense the tragedy they’ve been through. All their lives they’ve been caring and looking after their families and now they lost a lot; homes, jobs, prolific careers. The women have shown great bravery in the face of turmoil and tried to maintain a sense of family.” The refugee experience had also tremendous importance for him because of his strong opinion on the way the Australian government handled the refugee crisis.

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Poets of the Fall: Belated Interview and Self-Discovery

Poets of the Fall in a 2008 live performance By wlodi – http://www.flickr.com/photos/wlodi/2447716470/sizes/o/, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8938315

I first listened to the Finnish band “Poets of the Fall” in 2006. I was just starting college and they had just released “Carnival of Rust”; their second album. The first song that I listened to was “King of Fools”. I was awe-struck. It felt like I’ve been chosen to guard an ancient god that only whispered its secrets to me.
The guitar solo was great. The vocals were raw and emotional. Every single aspect of the song suddenly made sense. To a lonely, angry teenager, “Carnival of Rust” wasn’t just an album, but more of a way to adapt to the 2000s while carrying a hormonal hurricane deep inside you. Mark Saaresto’s –lead vocal- voice was more of a Jiminy Cricket to the wild, troubled writer who lived within me.

As he gently whispered lyrics from their song “Illusion and Dream”:
Hear them sing their songs off key
N’ nod like they agree
Buying the need to be discreet
Poof, my weariness would magically disappear. I would find courage and strength within to go on.
Okay, first things first.
Proper introduction: These guys are technically salt of the earth. Singer Marko Saaresto, guitarist Olli Tukiainen and keyboardist Markus “Captain” Kaarlonen started from scratch throwing everything away to seek the yellow brick road to art. Their songs tackled various subjects from life to sex, death to joy, and despair to empowerment. Their most recent album “Jealous Gods” reached the #1 spot on the Finnish album chart and the #1 spot in my heart as well. A collection of instrumental versions of five of the band’s songs will be released February 16th in an album under the title “Instrumental Collection Vol.1”.
They say every critic is a failed artist. That’s true to a point. I’ve always dreamed of being a rock star. As I juggled failed auditions to be a female lead vocal from one contraband to the other, I realized that writing about music could be easier than actually pursuing a musical career.
I had the privilege of representing Synchronized Chaos magazine in interviewing the “Old Gods of Asgard” via email and the result was a sincere and thought-provoking insight into the kitchen where the Poets shed their skin and become dragons, monsters, demigods and superheroes. One of the best things about “Poets of the Fall” is that their darkest melody never gives in to despair. Poets of the Fall’s lead vocalist Marko Saaresto described the musical process as an “inner need to write music” or else it would be “a short-lived love affair”.
Isn’t that just spectacular?

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Xavier Dolan and Revolutionizing Sexuality on the Big Screen

A Feminist Critical Analysis of Xavier Dolan’s Cinema

By: Jaylan Salah

Xavier Dolan

The year is 2014.

Being a film critic you are granted many privileges that most people can’t have access to, including early screenings for films that haven’t been in cinemas yet or ones that won’t find a market in your home country.

One of the films I had the pleasure of watching was Mommy, the crazy creation by Canadian director and actor Xavier Dolan, who was 25 years old by the time he made it. Nobody had the privilege of watching any of Dolan’s five features that he has made so far in Egypt, save for “Mommy” which people watched late in 2015.

Wow!

Not only is he incredibly young for such depth in analyzing human emotions and depicting them onscreen, but he has also shared the Jury Prize at Cannes Film Festival with — wait for it — the great Jean-Luc Godard!

That being said, the guy has balls. And talent!

Ever since Mommy I’ve been tracking down Xavier Dolan and every film that he directed. Today after watching J’ai tué ma Mère (I Killed my Mother) — his first feature and the last Dolan film on my plate — I can safely say I have formed a critical idea on his world as a director and an artist. As a cinephile and a feminist, my reasons for reveling in the Dolan experience would be as follows.

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Salem

It was a cold November day
I prayed to reach the stakes, before midnight
The flight to the moon was full of gloom
The executioner said, I’d soon be dead
I’d kick the box by noon, he said, I would never forget
The road to death was full of screams, begging and pleas
I held on to the bars of rusting iron
I fought back all the scars of blazing pain
I sniffed all the tears of distant fears
I watched the stake, fire and wood
I watched the faces of the people

Hatred filled eyes, despise, fear and loath
All they did was point a finger, scorn a look
I took my last weeds of wisdom, shut my senses
No preferences, today was the day I’d slowly die
The fire burned so scarily high, Mary was there, her hair was rising up to hell

Sarah was hiding, her tears were washing all my pain
Elizabeth stood both strong and frail, she hoped her trial would just fail
I laughed my heart out at the stake, I was in a hurry to embrace it
Hands tied roughly behind my back, hair trimmed coarsely in a bun
faggots beneath my feet, soot and tar over my head

Eyes reaching the sky so high, ears deafened by church’s bells
I waited for the flames to flare, to burn my feet and burn my dare
But nothing came although the flames were piercing high
across the cloudy, foggy sky
they blew the fire and the wind, waiting for me to turn to dust

But I was higher than them all, saving my dignity and soul
I waited for the time to die, afraid to hurt my precious pride
The executioner’s vicious laugh was turned to gasps and doubtful glare
Maybe she isn’t guilty, someone shouted
But she must die, and die i should

Before I go and leave behind
nothing but ashes, dirt and slime
I had to say that I would pray, to see the day where they became
lesser than me and more than this

Their wings would succumb to distress
Their eyes would certainly behold
The death of an innocent lady, a woman with a heart of cold
A woman so pretty and bold, whose crime is turning dust to gold
They lit the fire and withdrew, that time, it hurt to watch it glow

My skin began to melt, my hair began to fume
But I would never beg, would sure not bend
The terror soon swept away, leaving a flower to decay
I wasn’t there when ashes sprang, from bodily hope and dreams and trance

I was above the cowards and whore
Flying across the distant stars, singing along the vale profound
smoke dancing with every single sound I made

I wasn’t dead, you pathetic twits
I was a symbol of resistance, a gale and holy princess
smoke that arose from me was twisted sending letters to the saints and children

Behold the witch in Salem lot
She was the bravest on the spot

Welcome to Egypt

Passersby in the cafes, Hollywood Stars in the corner,
me with a cigarette, sipping on my pain,
taking in the stabs from cardiac arrest
pushing limits of the houses downtown
And the monastries downtown
And the shops at the far-off corner, two inches away
I raise my glass and clink it with a war heroes phantom limb
He smiles through golden teeth
He reeks of musk and sour cream
Among the steam coated lies he whispers
“Welcome to Egypt”

Confessions of a Possessed Woman in a Sane, Sane World

If there’s a life and a death
If pain is avoidable in another body
I’d rather be possessed by this catatonic demon
than get dressed, work my lips and pluck my breasts
to be your slave
Your highness, I’m just a girl who chose wood over pearls
and walked on burning sand
to join the pilgrims in Neverland
where eagles cry and ants dream
where bubbling steam shoots from dusty craters, full of candies and white beet
Trick or Treat
it’s either this or a thousand splendid suns under my feet
I go for a bun and a cup of tea on a crooked table with some lunatic unable
to pay yesterday’s rent
than kiss your feet and scoop diamonds with cherry on top
I wait for a date on this decaying planet
I wait for a long walk on a beach, covered with peaches and cocktails
where pines are bleached and caterpillars fly away
I choose to stay in a body made of flesh and blood
than fit your shining armor
where heart is steel, legs are wheels and an egg stands for a nose
and drums for teeth

Jaylan Salah is a poet, dreamer, human rights activist, feminist, pharmacist and scholar in Alexandria, Egypt. Please visit her Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/jaylanpoeticmuses for a collection of her works. 

Tears On Her Guitar

She plays the guitar
Her father talks about the tragedies of the world
She keeps playing
Her tears fall leaving burning marks in the mocha colored wood
Her father just keeps talking
The news in the background; protests and street fights
Her father speaks of the increasing prices
As she fumbles with the keys, her father throws the grocery bag on the ground
Her eyes are shut, she’s on her father’s shoulders, her arms spread like an eagle and she’s flying
She’s three again
She’s happy
Her father is a bitter old man, his stories of chalice, humiliation and betrayal like fuel to her art
She sings about love, happy couples and intimate moments in bed
Her father interrupts her singing, asks if she wants beans or peas for dinner
She’d rather live off chocolate chip cookies but he doesn’t get it
“It’s a sad era” he grunts. “This country is damned”
Through the window she could see her bare-chested ex, his hips swaying with the girl he chose two weeks before
His hair is a haven of Twix and Mars and honey
His eyes a smoldering gray, like smokes sent by gods of the outer space
Yet she plays on her guitar, trying to change the atmosphere
She plants a seed, her father ploughs the soil
She sings a song, her father turns on the TV
Her ex abandons the woman pregnant with his only son
The news fades in the background
But only her music lives and sadly, so do we

Jaylan Salah is a freelance writer and Synchronized Chaos contributor from Alexandria, Egypt. You may reach Salah at vigilante171@yahoo.com.

I stand on the tip of the railing. There’s a fire underneath and a tornado behind my back. Cold, crisp air is gnawing mercilessly at my back and shoulders. I dare not look back or down, I only stare at the crimson sky shadowed by clouds and a thousand crystal meteorites. I breathe in the smoky, thick summer air and wonder where the cold is coming from. The skeletal hands get hold of my feet and I am startled, I dare look down and that’s all it takes for me to lose it and fall…

I wake up, feeling groggy and dizzy. My period has started today and my panties are flooded with crimson red. Well, that probably explains the color of the sky in the dream.

I wash my face, brush my teeth and prepare my bag for a boring school day of pure torture. Starting with Mr. Reffat in Arabic class and ending with Mrs. Mary in PE, my day is washed in optimism and liveliness. In other words, shit is all over the place. There’s nothing better than wearing the uniform, tying my long chestnut brown hair in a tight ponytail – I must remember to have a haircut when summer vacation starts – and drinking cappuccino.

“You’re supposed to have breakfast before school,” Dad mumbles without lifting his eyes off the morning paper, Al-Ahram, as usual.

“I never go for the supposed stuff, Baba,” I reply and head towards the door.

“I won’t pick you up today. I’m going to visit your aunt Mahira and I may stay long there. Dinner will be in the oven.”

I go out of the door without looking back, slam it behind me and wait for the elevator.

I never knew a house without a mother will be that bleak!

The road to school is paved with dust and gravel. Everything seems gloomy, bleary and transparent. The school walls are gray with aging, the ceilings are cracked and the teachers seem to be stranded on a permanent timeline without a chance of being released. They look old, soggy and mummified. I almost expect Mr. Nassar to fall dead at any second and Miss Maysa to excuse herself and take a nap in her golden coffin. The weather is unchangeable during school times; either cloudy in winter or humid in summer. Our school knows nothing about the beauty of nature, even on a cloudy day the sky is a block of endless gray and cloud art seems to exist off premises but never when we’re inside. School is simply a machine to suck the life from my lungs, but of course that’s just me.

Jaylan Salah would love to find representation and formal critique and editing for her soon-to-be complete novel, When Lovers are Sinners – which deals with class and cultural issues in modern-day Egypt, but with a supernatural twist. She may be reached at joly16_blackpearl@hotmail.com

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