Christopher Bernard reviews Karl Wolff’s On Being Human

 

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What Are We, Anyway?

 

On Being Human

By Karl Wolff

38 pages

Chicago Center for Information and Photography

Various formats, including electronic and a paper edition, available at cclapcenter.com/onbeinghuman

 

An essay review by Christopher Bernard

 

The question “what does it mean to be human?” has become daunting. Both more urgent and more problematic in recent decades, it promises to become even more so in years to come. This short book of brief and stimulating essays on “novels and movies that examine the question of humanity,” written by Karl Wolff, a staff writer and associate editor for the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography, brings a number of these concerns to sharp focus. His book does what criticism does at its best: not only raising important questions and suggesting new avenues of exploration but introducing readers to ideas and works new to them, or encouraging readers to revisit and understand them in new ways.

It is odd that up until a few decades ago, the title “On Being Human” could have been used for some anodyne book in an undergraduate “humanities” course on “the miracle of Greece,” the marvels of the Renaissance, and the triumph of the Enlightenment, with a few passing references to such modern sages as Tolstoy, Albert Schweitzer, and Gandhi. Only in the last century, especially the last generation, has the category “human” become problematic, troubling, even empty, as the lessons of the “inhumanity” of human beings learned from the monstrosities of slavery to the carnage of Verdun to the death camps and killing fields of Europe and Asia to the Sixth Extinction have sunk in, and the virtues of our humanity have seemed increasingly overwhelmed by our evils.

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Essay from Ayokunle Adeleye

 

The POTENTIAL: Breaking Forth

It was the beginning of a new session. The young boy put on his
uniform and was set for school. At the end of the term, the boy was
sent home with a note from his teacher thus: ‘This boy should not
report to school henceforth. He’s too dull for knowledge and performed
woefully in arithmetic. He may never amount to anything in life.’ That
young boy however grew to have the most intriguing mind of all time.
His brain became the focus of research into human intelligence and
abstract thinking.

That young boy was Albert of the Einsteins

Centuries ago, a young boy was employed at the Royal Institute,
London, as a laboratory assistant under Sir Humphrey Davy. His major
work was to wash the apparatus, make them available for use, and pack
them back for storage. The young attendant was however curious to know
more. Not only would he do his job, he would also collect the notes
and read them on his own, yet he was not a student – nor did he go to
school. (While he was an apprentice with a book binder, he would wait
behind after work hours and read each book bound!) After fifteen years
of self-education, he had garnered so much knowledge that he succeeded
Davy. Then he got a patent for his first invention, the dynamo.

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Poetry from Neila Mezynski

 

 Cake Man

Couldn’t get enough, cake that is. Turned into one. Frosting for hair, chocolate for nails, double fudge layers in between chinny chin chin. Belly big, laugh one more. Piece that is. No such thing as left over under. Cake. Could hide but the nose nose. No such thing as saving for Aunt Bertha or any other ant or person who might enjoy some. Sugar. Disposal. Not enough hugs just cake. One more. Please. Only.

 

 

Short story from Lysious Ogolo

LOST BUT FOUND LOVE

 

Tears rolled down Jane’s cheeks as she stared at the framed picture on her bed stand. It was ten in the morning and she was still in bed. She’d been awake for an hour, but she wasn’t ready to face the day. She’s been living like this since the news of the boat mishap which supposedly claimed Steve’s life was published in the Washington Post one week ago. She’d wake up every morning and just stare at the picture she and Steve had taken on the afternoon they visited the mall together for the first time. That was the last time they spent together before the boat mishap. As she stared at the picture, she continued to sob, letting the tears from her eyes trickle down her cheeks and soak up her pillow. So many memories flooded her mind as she stared at the picture: the afternoon she’d received the news about the mishap on the Potomac River, the search team that was launched, and the success the search team had in recovering the other bodies involved, which she didn’t really see as success because Steve’s was not among the bodies rescued. She thought about Sam, John and Philip and the way their unconscious bodies had looked when they were rescued from the river. She was eighteen years old and remembering the summer she and Steve had fallen in love; the summer she had a heart attack and how Steve had been by her side the entire time. Even though they’d only been seeing each other for a year, she felt as though Steve was the reason she was able to face the many challenges of her life. He was the reason she’d found strength to press on with her life after she lost her dad and her doctor told her she didn’t have much time to live because of her heart condition. Every moment she spent with Steve made her feel that she could live longer than her doctor had predicted. Now that he was gone, she wondered whether she would be able to face life anymore. The strength to live was no longer in her and with the passage of each day she felt weaker and weaker. She continued to stare at the picture until she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Her mom poked her head in.

          Breakfast is ready. I made you your favorite: pancakes with gravy.” Jane didn’t respond. She sat up on the bed and continued to stare at the picture. “Sweetie, are you crying again?” When Jane didn’t answer, her mom crossed the room, sat beside her and gently clasped her hand. “Sweetie, you can’t continue to live like this; no amount of tears is going to bring Steve back to life.”

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Holly Sisson reviews Opera San Jose’s Madama Butterfly

 

 

 

 

 

Opera San Jose’s Madama Butterfly in Review

Holly Alexis Sisson, MA (consciousness studies)

Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924) was one of the finest Italian composers. During my pursuits to research, the forever academic, Opera and particularly this composition and the San Jose Opera, I was surprised to discover that with an ocean and a continent apart there was a direct connection between Milan and San Jose, California during Puccini’s time. David Belasco, born in San Francisco, produced the play from which Puccini derived the opera. Belasco wrote, directed, produced, and acted in a number of plays just a few blocks from California Theatre in San Jose.

I was already mesmerized by the daydream fantasies I had of wringing my heart out at intermission and wearing those funny little flip opera-glasses, but this connection made it all the more enticing.

One of my mentors and teacher of indigenous knowledge and shamanic practices once said “the modern Western culture leaves no place in the music industry for the depth of emotions that help us process the story of being human except the Opera.” Being my first opera show I was very excited to witness and participate in that depth of emotion.

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Poetry from Virginie Colline

 

pointillistePointilliste by Alain Vaissiere

FOUR HAIKU


dark rumble
in the cat’s dilated eyes
our primal fear

the ice is cracking
under our blistered feet
great debacle

water under the bridge
the flow of days
between us

a wave for you
away from me
lost in the emerald sea

Originally published in Winamop, 2013.

(with Alain Vaissiere’s kind permission)

  Review, Blue Skies Poetry, Turk’s Head Review, Diogen Magazine, Literary Juice, Hothouse Magazine, The Bangalore Review, Creative Thresholds, Poems Underwater, Storyacious and Japanorama, among others.

Excerpt from Alexis Kennedy’s fantasy novel Bound through Blood

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Bound through Blood is available for purchase here: http://www.amazon.com/Bound-Through-Blood-Alexis-Kennedy/dp/0615942202/

Amazon description: When Devin lost his true love to the 18th century witch trials, he thought he’d lost his only chance at ever having love and a mortal life again forever. But then the vampire tastes his true love’s blood in another—her tenth generation great-granddaughter. Now, suddenly, that life is possible again, but only if he can convince Salena Saunders of their destiny. Fighting against the forces who want to protect her and the men who want to have her— including his own long-lost vampire brother, Gabriel— Devin struggles to get close enough to prove his love and intentions to Salena while protecting her from Gabriel and her own superstitions. Salena Saunders works as a tour guide in a New Orleans historical home—unraveling the past for tourists—when her own past begins to haunt her and mythical stories actually come to life right before her eyes. For the first time ever, she seeks guidance from fortunetellers and voodoo priestesses for answers—ones that both promise to shock her and guide her to true love and her destiny. Beyond the realm of mythical creatures and superstitions, as well as her very own cultural surroundings, Salena must come to terms with being Bound Through Blood.

Excerpt: Devin kept pace with the women; he’d been watching and following Salena all day. It had taken some time to locate her, but he’d finally found her scent when he flew, as a black hawk, over the French Quarter. She had been walking out of a voodoo shop, with a look of deep concern on her beautiful face, when he caught her scent. It was her unmistakable alluring fragrance of honeysuckle and lavender.

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