Street Light Interference Effect, or, You are a Slider

You’ve got this electricity thing.  Capability.  Talent.  Call it what you want.  It works.

Seventh grade was the first time it happened.  Pre-Algebra class.  Ms. It’s-None-of-Your-Business-Whether-or-Not-I’m-Married taught you how to find x if twenty-times-x-equals three hundred.  She was the Cheshire cat.  Her grin was so wide you could see the sides of her molars.  Her eyelids were painted lavender.  She was the drag queen Divine reincarnated, minus the belly rolls.At the end of class she single-filed you all at her desk.  You were supposed to staple your papers together.  The stapler was aqua, bedazzled with rhinestones.  She sat at her desk munching on a snack cake, licking her fingers.  Her nickname—Missile Tits—was obvious: she was Madonna in the eighties.  Instead of a push-up bra she wore a push-out.

[Reviewed by Bruce Roberts]

Several years ago, the brother of one of my wife’s students took his own life. The family, of course, was devastated, but his younger sister, in my wife’s class, seemed to forge right on. The mother would call, asking if the girl was distracted, emotional, falling behind, but no, she seemed to be operating normally, despite her brother’s death. Her grief—internalized—never appeared in public.

That grief takes many forms is a major theme of Quiet Chaos, a novel by Sandro Veronesi. The plot grows from one particular day in the life of Pietro Paladini, the main character; a day in which he nearly loses his life saving a drowning woman, then goes home to discover that his soon-to-be bride, the mother of Claudia, his ten year old daughter, has unexpectedly died.

He, of course, expects the worst reaction from Claudia, and to assure that he—a good father—will be there when she needs him, he decides to wait in his car across the street from her school as long it takes to see her through this toughest of times. And wait he does. Every day!  He drops her off for school, parks the car, and waits until she reemerges at day’s end. She even begins waving out the window at him as she changes classes. What she doesn’t do though, is fall apart with grief.

Bruce Roberts is a poet and ongoing contributor to Synchronized Chaos Magazine. Roberts may be reached by at brobe60491@sbcglobal.net.

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About the featured artwork:

“The drawings are studies in intimate detail of subjects that can symbolize sustenance, desire, fertility, nature (esp. human-engineered/consumed nature). The association of world maps with nature and consumption speaks to our age.”

–Ari Bernabei

To contact the artist directly, please email aribernabei@att.net. Also, visit aribernabei.com.

[Reviewed by Nicole Arocho]

As I read “It Felt Like a Kiss”, Leena Prasad’s words were a contagious rhythm of artistic truths, or I should rather say, statements, for she encourages the reader to discover his or her own truths just like she did. As an artist myself, I am constantly looking at art in different ways as I keep growing up and my different experiences mold my artistic senses and perspectives. Leena Prasad accomplishes a delicate fusion between a personal essay and informative text that drives us to imagine every single place she describes, every mural or piece of art that moves her to analyze her place in the colorful Mission district of San Francisco. Her personal discovery catapults the reader to question his or her perspectives just like the author did, to internalize the different artistic venues in their town and think of their impact in their lives. Art is an intrinsic part of the Mission District, and each type evokes different emotions and thoughts in the author, which she shares with us with transparency. Each experience is shared with insights of her life, and this makes the book very real and tangible, almost as if you could be right there with her, experiencing the magnetic appeal of art by her side. My favorite “essay” was Shut Up Honky because it showed me a new way of looking at graffiti stencils as “dialogue”, not as ill-intentioned messages. Thus, they become a way of having a conversation, of showing the varied opinions and nuances of this rich community.

You can contact the reviewer, Nicole Arocho, at narocho3@gmail.com.

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Trius Fernsler is a contemporary artist and instructor who is influenced by an array of artists, elements, and rhythmic techniques. You may contact Fernsler at triusf@yahoo.com.

Website: www.triusart.com

Facebook: facebook.com/triusf

[Reviewed by Jaylan Salah]

Oh, what sweet torture.

This sentence sprang to my mind the moment I began reading Janine Canan’s inspirational poetry collection “In the Palace of Creation.” Why I felt that way will be explained in the paragraphs to come.

“In the Palace of Creation” contains selected poems by Janine from the years 1969-1999. It is divided into 8 sections. Section 7 contains poems translated from other poets’ works and the last section contains the conclusion to all the mystery and enquiry of the previous poems. The thing with good poetry is that it always leaves the door open. It never gives us direct answers or puts a full stop at the end of the sentence. It’s a spontaneous process of living the experience without expecting anything from it. That’s what I felt with Janine’s poetry.

In the beginning, you stand at the door of Canan’s “Abandoned Garden”. You are hesitant and afraid, unsure of what to expect. But as you go through the lines and immerse yourself in the exquisite beauty, you realize that you’re just a pilgrim, finding your Mecca at Janine’s feet. She is the Goddess, the Mother of All and we’re all praying females, drinking from the river of her individuality and strength. Throughout the whole book, you lose your materialism and turn into one of Canan’s birds. You’re the Eagle in “Two Eagles”, losing your shyness and flying away into the sky. You’re the woodpecker that drums upon the hemlock tower in “Forest Temple”. You will scream your lungs away as a peacock in “Stubborn Rose”.

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

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