Essay from Ayokunle Adeleye
In Defense of the ASUU STRIKE.
Resolved: ASUU strikes are utterly ineffective, totally uncalled for,
profoundly senseless, and the students are always the only victims.
Defense: It is no news that the Academic Staff Union of Universities
(ASUU) had, for the past three years, embarked on shorter warning
strikes over the non-implementation of its Agreement with the Federal
Goverment (FG) with the general public- and market women- haplessly
looking on and seemingly enjoying the show; after all, silence means
consent. Finally, the perpetual stimulus has reached threshold
potential and the whole nation runs amok over a long-foreseen and
imminent tetanic contraction. Abaa!
Where was the Senate during those calmer, but innoculating, times when
ASUU yelled and none responded. Wasn’t this the same Senate that would
rather cut off our petroleum product subsidy than starve their obese
allowances? Now that ASUU has thrown away its hearing aid we blame her
for a deafness we all share(d), a deafness we stubbornly refused to
acknowledge before now. Did we not know that following prior
innoculation, the (immune) response tended to be faster, stronger and
of longer duration? Did we think all was well with our ailing
varsities and the half-baked, hardly employable, products they churned
out- overcrowded and antiquated ovens that they have become?
Alas! It is now that we realise that the guillotine is not the cure
for the hailing head. The FG can spend N350m to renovate a residence
(of the permanent representative to the UN, we are told) but our
universities can rot for all they care! And ASUU must not go on
industrial action? Then who will?- and what will?
If U don’t want strike then what do U want? Silence? Mona Lisa
attitude: sad and smiling; suffering and smiling? That we Nigerians
have been known for the world over- and for a long time now? Dialogue?
Who, in their right minds, would dialogue with a blind government-
blinded to and by corruption in unthinkable quarters and to
unspeakable depths? Or why would an elected official hide behind
bullet-proof doors if not to hide his/her stench from the malnourished
polity s/he has lived off, an undying parasite that s/he is? And why
would a governor deny his own country, his own people, legal import
duty on the wealth he extracted from us anyway? And now that he
perceives we’re wasteland we must not benefit from his huge purchase-
nor must our professionals be employed on it. Greed. Greed. Greed. And
greed! But the river that forgets its source shall soon dry.
Alas, in Nigeria, your rights are not pre-ordained; you fight till you
are reckoned with. That’s the Nigeria we’ve come to see. (A Nigeria
where 16 trumps 19 in a majority vote. Where Governors enjoying
constitutional immunity cannot meet peacefully without invasive Police
interruption in their lodges. Where ordinary Nigerians cannot assemble
to protest unfavourable FG policies- and inactions on corrupt
purchases- without pervasive military occupation in our streets.)
So, if ASUU hadn’t gone on this strike would the Almighty Bros J- the
other, human, J- meet with them for 13 hours? If U think that’s a Yes,
why then did it take him 4 whole months? Not to be missed is the
fire-brigade approach- typical of Nigeria, alas not only in Sports-: a
lingering, festering, 4-month-old strike was to be called off in the
twinkling of an eye when the Paramount Ruler would not bat his eyelid
for 123 days- just because he has finally said so!
Nigeria we hail thee…
Oh, and to say that all students are the victim(s) of this strike will
be to commit the famous Fallacy of Composition: Alas, not all students
are jobless- and joblessly roaming about the streets- some of us have
actually taken this time-out to try our hands in some business or the
other, learn a trade, or practise our calling and sharpen our skills.
Life is tough, life is a competition; and strikes are just one of
those volcanic eruptions by which the strong and sturdy are separated
from the weak and feeble!
Perhaps another are those election violence we have to be part of
because our (literal) grandfathers still wallow in politics and will
not just dive in and be meals for the fish. They’d rather we wear life
vests- riddled with the holes of their mischief- and dive in to save
their sinking, stinking, political careers. So they can be President
or Governors, and Senators, and Honourables at all cost- human lives
not exempted!
Everything aforesaid is in my opinion, as is this: Anyone older than
the country Nigeria has no business whatsoever ruling in whatever
capacity. We’ve had enough of you; you’ve overstayed your (stolen)
welcome. An actor leaves the stage when the ovation is loudest, to
stay a second longer is for, in the words of the immortal Tai Solarin
which I will undoubtedly jumble up, the housefly to meet the toileting
bushman yet toileting. Ẹ lọ sẹ́mpẹ́. Una don try. Au revoir!
Ayokunle Adeleye. Undergraduate. Ogun State.
adelayok@gmail.com
Poetry from Emma Eisler
Flight and Fall
Give me a ticket to your carnival show
I want to watch you whirl through the big-tent
I’ll sneak in; ride on the wave of ten-dollar perfume and fallen dreams
Perpetual chatter, ersatz happiness
Performers whose illusions lure only the lonely
I’ll wait with you backstage
You’ll whisper in my ear,
“That’s the boy who flies the highest, but he’ll fall the fastest
That’s the girl who started out selling pocket candy and possibility”
“And which are you?” I’ll ask
You’ll look away and answer, “The girl who loves to dance”
But I already knew that
I’ll look at your arsenic eyes and licorice hair
At your tapping foot that’s itching to be free
Just like the rest of you
You’re the girl who loves to dance
So much she’ll die dancing, frail legs spinning
Hummingbird heart whirring in her final thrill
The lights and colors pull you away, on stage
And you never bothered to ask, “Which are you?”
Too entranced by the circus of your desire
Tunnel vision of all you wish to do
But if you’d asked, I’d answer,
“I’m the boy who loves to watch, so much he’d die watching,
Drown in the scent of cotton candy,
Spiraling flight of trapeze artists wishing for wings”
But even if you asked, you wouldn’t hear me anyway
Because for you, love has always been a softer shade
Than longing
Poetry from Amina Aineb
A Bizarre Way of Walking to a House
How bizarre it was to walk from the Bazaar,
the gypsy night parade to my abode
and the tiptoe of trepidation.
No longer do I know
daisy dew in darling day
so I’ll scream it all in some bizarre way:
A girl, walking, folded into a defensive pounce.
What lurks in these
forests of houses?
She paces herself and tries not to look vulnerable.
Step beat pause sweat. Soon,
her march slain by the meander—
the sharp sidewalk, the dying spotlight glow of streetlights,
the animal in that house’s alley, the tall swinging beings
that carry no torches, rubber meshing with asphalt in tires, on her feet,
spacious air and night humidity licking her shoulders and she
runs
how could she not know
runs
of this spirit world
runs
I’ll die with no requests from my abode.
In the day, I’ll sleep eagerly
And in the day, perhaps you might see me,
the stranger smiling on the street.
Martin Rushmere on Marin Onstage’s production of Ibsen’s Doll’s House
(printed early to catch readers before the show ends)
A Doll’s House
Marin Onstage
Directed by Ron Nash
Little Theatre, St Vincent’s, Marin
Through November 17
Brave Nora? Poor Nora? Selfish Nora? The strength of Marin Onstage’s production of Ibsen’s A Doll House is that the acting and dramatization are of such quality that they leave the audience free to make up its own mind whether Nora is justified in slamming the door on a marriage plus three children.
The production is so good that the questions Ibsen asked 130 years ago about women’s place in the world and home get beneath the skin and make a modern audience question its own complacency about marriage, the home and personal duty.
As ever, 75 percent of the success or failure of the production lies with the lead role, and Stephanie Foster’s wonderful performance ensures the success. Her girlish twitter completes the impression of a naïve “little lark” concerned only with frivolous spending and making her husband happy. As Krogstad’s blackmail net draws closer the twitter is heard less often and becomes more forced. Director Ron Nash brings out the particular power of Foster in the frenzied tarantella dance rehearsal, timing the long pause at the end exactly to bring out the sense of impending doom that awaits Nora.
But Foster could still show more steely resolve in the showdown with Torvald to prove that the “little lark” has flown away for ever.
Gabriel Ross as Torvald in fact is the more powerful in the final scene, particularly in forbidding his wife from having any future contact with the children and stopping her from reading Krogstad’s letter, even though it is addressed to her. The success of his own performance is ensured in the declaration “I would gladly work night and day for you, Nora–bear sorrow and want for your sake. But no man would sacrifice his honor for the one he loves” – shocking and thought-provoking at the same time.
Her retort restores the balance of power. “It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done.”
Jim McFadden brings out a fine measure of whining, crushed resentment against the world as Krogstad, making the observer reluctantly feel some compassion. But a greater sense of menace is needed to show he will destroy her husband if Nora does not meet his demands.
Bill McClave dons a competent persona as Dr. Rank, the family friend secretly in love with Nora. Their own denouement falls short of convincing however, almost as though McClave is not fully concentrating on delivering his admission – which sets the pace for the whole scene — with the right mix of emotions.
Kelsey Sloan as Mrs. Linde works up power and moves into her character as the scenes unfold. Her first scene elicits an “uh, oh, is she up to the part?” but she gains confidence and shades Krogstad in their big encounter.
Regardless of performance, Ibsen almost always brings out the bleakest aspects of humans. The comments on religion and suicide make us despair of our whole existence.
Ron Nash’s production proves that local companies (with the exception of a certain Marin group) do have the ability to stage the classics,which should not be the preserve of big city groups only.
A personal plea to directors and producers the world over. Why, ohhh why, are the slam of the door and the letter in the mailbox, the enduring symbols of A Doll House, so often portrayed OFF STAGE? Just putting the mailbox on stage ratchets up the tension – and gives Nora a greater range of opportunities to show her state of mind.
Martin Rushmere is a writer and journalist from Sausalito, California and may be reached at martinzim@earthlink.net
Synchronized Chaos November 2013 – Mapping the Inner and Outer Cosmos
“You are not obliged to finish the task; neither are you free to neglect it.” – Pirkei Avot 2:21
Welcome to November’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.
Many cultures view the last few days of October and beginning of November as a special time to remember and honor those who have passed on, to reconnect with history and heritage. We wish a happy Day of the Dead, Samhain, Diwali, and Halloween to those who celebrate.
We also mention some insightful, courageous writing from longtime contributor Jaylan Salah, from Alexandria, Egypt. She recently had a piece published in the Elephant Journal about the freedom in being authentic: http://www.elephantjournal.com/2013/10/nakedly-naked-jaylan-salah/ and another on poverty and sexism within modern Egyptian culture: http://guardianlv.com/2013/10/egypt-the-country-you-know-nothing-about/ Please feel free to take a look at these short pieces.
This month we voyage out into the vast expanse of the universe, looking to culture, history, science and geopolitics for insight.
Charlotte (Capaldo) Shea reviews Robot Futures, Dr. Illah Reza Nourbakhsh’s book on the scientific promise of robotics research. Rather than repeat skepticism and fears about ‘robots taking our jobs,’ Nourbakhsh takes a more optimistic and curious tack, exploring various technical possibilities and holding out faith in humanity’s ability to adapt.
Regular neuroscience columnist Leena Prasad reviews Dr. Eric Chulder’s Neuroscience Haiku, a collection of thoughts on brain science expressed in the traditional Japanese poetic form by the University of Washington researcher. Dr. Chulder communicates modern findings through a form of expression that goes back centuries, engaging us as we learn about the frontiers of research.
Leemond Dollins’ poem, “A Day on the Mat,” where a speaker combats depression through yoga and medication, plays with form, varying line lengths according to a Fibonacci sequence pattern often seen in nature, such as within the structures of pine cones, seashells, and leaf and flower petals.
Nigerian medical student and essayist Ayokunle Ayk Adeleye discusses the university staff strike in his home country and warns his government against violent solutions. His piece provides a view of current affairs from a local citizen’s perspective.
Also, and sometimes at the same time that we look outward, we peer within, to our minds, hearts, and desires. These submissions express our wishes for transcendence, our longings to go beyond our own lives and circumstances and connect with something larger than ourselves.
Sages and philosophers have admonished us for ages that if we want to unveil beauty, solve the mysteries of existence, or teach others about living a meaningful life, we must first confront our own issues. While that makes sense, it is difficult to figure out how to deal with ourselves – prompting another maxim, that the problems facing our age may not be solvable by the minds that created them.
However, we need to start somewhere – we may be imperfect when it comes to understanding and moral strength, but sometimes we are all we’ve got! Even when we turn to faith, there is still some element of human responsibility in terms of understanding and living out the values of our spiritual traditions. The mere fact that something is difficult, or even impossible in its entirety for us as mortal creatures does not necessarily excuse us from the duty to attempt it. And this month’s contributors, when their thoughts turn inward, make attempts at honest reflection and self-analysis.
Charles Mazzarella celebrates the creative journey in his piece on the writing process, going beyond his own work to discuss the art in general and setting a tone for this issue.
Sophie Mazoschek highlights the brevity and fragility of each of our moments, and each of our lives, in her imaginative rendering of a San Francisco bus ride. Her vignette extends the life of a small slice of time. Jack Savage graces us with another dream image, reaching into his subconscious to create an interesting striped animal.
Kamila Boegedal expresses her speaker’s desire to touch the cosmos, to expand her circle of thought and concern beyond her own daily matters. She longs for the freedom to reach up to the heavens and to share the relative permanence of trees. She yearns to expand, to connect to something larger outside herself.
Sue Barnard chronicles literal journeys in this issue, to the less-frequented Roman ruins of Ostia and to a Swiss independence day celebration. Yet these travels represent something more than just a personal diary, reminding us why we go to visit historical places. Apart from intellectual curiosity, we are acknowledging that we are part of something larger, that humanity existed before us and will continue after our passing. We are not so unique as to have never faced many of the vagaries of human life and nature before, yet we are important enough to play some part in leaving a legacy for future generations.
Emma Bernstein also looks to mythology in her poem Chained Woman, evoking images of the stars and the cosmos, as well as classical Greek tales, in her piece on the constellation Andromeda. Science here is a modern day myth, re-infused with the idea of sacrifice and redemption.
Bill Vernon provides an earthy, humorous look at one man’s dedication to Latin translation, choosing the elevation of the mind over the needs of the body.
James Humphries, Texas’ first prison fine arts teacher, as described by his son Jonathan in the memoir Windham’s Rembrandt, and reviewed here by Kimberly Brown, had to deal with his own issues before being able to serve others. This became a practical necessity as well as a psychological platitude, since he realized he was also vulnerable to some of the same life issues and temptations facing his students. Mr. Humphries develops empathy for the inmates as he encounters his own problems, and becomes able to teach them without either judging them as human beings or coming from a superior position to pity them as poor victims. The book honors the humanity of its characters – in and out of prison – without ignoring or excusing negative actions on their part, by illustrating their capacity for reflection, growth and change in the face of internal and external obstacles.
David Toussaint’s book DJ: The Dog Who Rescued Me, also deals with self-examination, with a protagonist who finds his way out of depression. Reviewed here by Elizabeth Hughes, and illustrated by Piero Ribelli, the book shows a narrator who avoids the pitfall of self-absorption even as he tackles his own personal issues by staying connected to the larger world through caring for a rescue dog. Dealing with ourselves doesn’t have to mean neglecting our responsibilities to each other, or completely isolating ourselves from others’ needs, and can be a mutually enriching process.
Hughes also reviews Paul deBlassie’s The Unholy, a novel using the paranormal genre not as an escape but as a way to explore the spiritual, the psychological, the world beyond what we can see. DeBlassie aims to promote values of life, healing, nature and nurturing through his work, as opposed to greed and lust for control, and the horror aspect of the book highlights the real harm caused by selfishness and ignorance, and shows the need for and power of the beauty and grace within the story.
Daniel Jacobs’ The Eyes of Abel, as reviewed here by Fran Lewis, shows a journalist learning to confront and tackle his unconscious political biases, and those of the rest of his media organization. Charlin is well-meaning, brave, and determined to expose the truth, but must first make sure he understands the complete picture. The novel suggests that peace in the Middle East may become possible when we hear the perspectives of all involved and grapple with the deeper economic roots of the conflict.
Irving Greenfield also addresses inner reflection in his melancholy short story, “Sorrows of Santa.” The piece suggests there is a price to pay for losing the illusions that have become ingrained in and possibly necessary to our society. How much would fall apart if things got examined, if we faced reality? Do we need to live a lie? Conversely, how could we find and provide hope while telling the truth to ourselves and our children?
Greenfield’s next tale, “Toward a Darkling Plain,” shows the pain that can come from facing reality, as a lonely man’s adult worries resemble his childhood terrors. As James Humphries dramatizes in Windham’s Rembrandt, we are only so strong, whether in the face of inner weaknesses or external threats. That is part of why we turn to myths, heritage, faith and the larger world for transcendence – not just for personal strength, but for the reassurance that life will continue after we are gone, that something will outlast us even when we lose our own battles.
Please enjoy this month’s issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine, and please feel free to leave comments for our writers and artists!
Poetry from Emma Bernstein
Chained Woman
By Emma Bernstein
Andromeda,
Flesh spun into stars
Crooked limbs
Stretched like galaxies across blueberry-velvet skies
You tremor above pavement
Cast your frail glow on autumn evenings
Andromeda,
My lonely sacrifice
Appease our gods
With their ice-carved features
Find me absolution for my sins
Andromeda,
My wayward flame
Bound to stone
Bound to constellations
Plush lips bellow mournfully
As I watch from my window
Forgive me,
My darling Andromeda
I have fallen from grace
My wings are dust
White ash drifting listlessly
Through gray fingers
And I fear you are my redemption


