And here…

And here’s to the ones who never give up and
Here’s to the hearts that never have enough of drinking in whatever of life they can
Manage to gulp in between violations, here’s to those of us who survive it
Wasn’t easy but then there’s no such thing as an easy death,
And some of us learn real young to die over and over again each night,
And we learn every morning there’s no angel come to save us from the monster armed
with diet books and scales and lies like shattered glass cradled between
Fingers draped in blood-streaked shock and awe which we have become…
But we have always continued afterwards in the direction of the ocean and the sky,
So here’s to the ones who crawl alive and exhausted out of our very own gravestones and
Label ourselves the monster you have spent your whole life learning how to fear because
We tell the truth and we refuse to let you be.
And here’s to those who continue on afterwards and here’s to the wings that sprout from
our eyelids and to trees in our legs and roots in our feet and every
Time they kill us we insist on coming back 10000fold,
We are rain sea sand and air,
We are every hope and dream you never knew you had to share and
When we speak we sound like mountains weeping or like a new day coming or
Like Wailing Walls or bullets at long last tumbling, falling, slowly, down.

Bombs Falling on Baghdad

Holding Ground
Bombs are falling on Baghdad.
150 people just died today, newspapers read.
Whenever I envision this many bodies piled beneath a dull
gray sky I choke.
I choke up, choke silent, I am drowning in an ocean of
Limbs beneath a starless sky and I know
The newspaper headline will read U.S. soldiers found dead.
Popular media considers Iraqi bodies unworthy of mention.
I learned my first year here I am complicit in peddling death, and
the destruction of all I hold dear has walked me
to every UC class since.
I wonder if the reason I have never looked too closely at
the color of gasoline is because I am afraid
What I see might set my heart to burning.
I choke on blood and nails and you are not there with me.
I want to shield you from every broken and damaged thing,
the amorphous you that is this
Campus as well as you who I claim to love but do so only
With selfish words and shattering glimpses of
A future whose coming I fear…
And meanwhile I can barely stand to look at you,
And meanwhile your choices glide rage under my skin and
bitterness tastes like Iraqi blood in my mouth like
activists’ blood like the tears you refuse to offer at the
graves you refuse to visit or even to acknowledge as reality.

Rebecca Scharlach is a poet and writer. She can be reached at angel17wings2003@yahoo.com.

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Kym
She dreams awake, a brick
Wall with marshmallows oozing
Through the cracks, she has elephant
Memory, holds in her sneezes,
Turns down the radio to parallel park

She doesn’t trust people who smile
A lot, pays her car notes two at a time,
Can’t cook worth a damn, cuts her peas
In half to hold onto a baseball bat
Figure, keeps an RCA Colortrak with ferns
Growing out of the screen

A backwash believer
Her glasses remain almost empty
The mortuary’s her sanity
She gives her clients foreign author
Names, conjures up a hush
Life they’ve lived

She injects Dostoevsky, massages
His clots for an even fluid distribution
He’s a handsome shade of rigor mortis
The film in his eyes coo
At her, the fuzz on his chest is the icing
On their wedding cake
Their fingers find each other on the groove
Of the knife slicing into crumb mass
His hand is a wet flame, sticky
Dough-like and boyish

Well, I’m glad we’ve already exchanged ‘I do’s!

A sea of heads cluck
And bobble in laughter, she keeps
A straight face, pleased
With herself for not giving
In to her own humor
Turns her back to shield
Them both from the swollen
Envy in Merlot-coated throats

He doesn’t break face either, the lines
In his forehead are a silk sheet juiced
Up with body in their Hilton
Honeymooner’s suite

She bumps her knee against metal
A stiff splotchy arm falls and dangles
Off the cot, she crosses her legs
Disgusted at the wet and coughs
Down tears.

Lyndsey Ellis is a writer and poet, working on a full-length novel entitled Bastard Dreams.

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I grew up in Florida and hurricanes were a part of living there. As a child they gave us days off school, provided us with opportunities to get creative, and feelings of excitement – for me, even wanting them to hit where we lived just so I could see what it was like to experience one – crazy as that sounds.
When I woke up on August 13, 2004, it was a perfect day. The telephone rang around 7:30am and woke me up. My neighbor was asking if our family was evacuating. I turned on the television and said, “Nope, Category 2 headed to Tampa…we will have a day off work and be back at the grind tomorrow. Come over for chili with your kids and your dog.” I got up and said to myself, “Let our hurricane party begin.” I went to work, scribbled out a sign on a sheet of white paper that read, “Closed today due to Hurricane Charley” and hung it on the door with a single piece of scotch tape and collected the ingredients for my chili.

Shortly after, my dad called from Michigan. He wanted to know if my husband had put the shutters up on their home. He had not. My dad said, “I have a funny feeling about this one, tell him to go do it.” We all rolled our eyes and thought – he is completely overreacting…this storm is going to blow on by and this is a waste of time. But he went.

A few hours later, my neighbor is at our home with her 3 kids and dog. We are all huddled in our living room, chili on the stove, flipping between every station on the TV…the sun is shining. I remember thinking about how amazingly gorgeous it was for an August day in Florida. Clear skies, light breeze, and low humidity. That was around noon.

By mid-afternoon the winds had started to pick up and the meteorologists were noticing changes in the direction of this compact storm. Within a few hours, this storm not only intensified but was changing course. It was a Category 4 with sustained winds of 140 miles per hour and made a direct hit on life as we once knew it. In 2 hours our lives had all changed. When we emerged from the bathroom – 2 dogs, 5 kids, and 3 adults – what we saw did not seem real. I remember opening the door to that bathroom, seeing our pool cage in our living room, broken glass everywhere, walking through puddles in my kitchen, seeing the sky through my kids rooms, and having to pry our garage door open to get the car out. 13 trees were down in our yard and a third of the roof had blown off our home. The power was out and the chili was still simmering on the gas stove.

It took us an hour to drive our car to my aunt and uncles home in the same neighborhood. Trees were everywhere, power lines were down, and nothing looked even vaguely familiar. The neighborhood I grew up in and had made my home as an adult looked like WWIII and literally resembled a bomb site. The power would remain off for several weeks. Our neighbors would come together to create a community, we had no other choice.

I remember delivering food from the freezer at the golf course restaurant to neighbors by golf cart, filling gas tanks from the pumps at the maintenance facility, handing out beer and liquor and water. We hooked up a generator to the ice machine so we could all have ice without going into town, which surely would take an hour and a half. People came together. We had community meals for days. Family and friends from out of state arrived to help. I had no idea what I needed. I had lost everything normal about my life.

For weeks I walked around in a daze, wondering what pieces to pick up first. I was the general manager at my family’s golf course and I felt like I needed a manager. I just wanted someone to tell me what to do, but at the same time didn’t want anyone telling me what to do. Time off, that is what I needed. I had been going through the motions, with no map. I had returned from a 3 month separation from my husband one week before that storm hit and felt very alone, angry, and uncertain. Now this.

I would spend the next year rebuilding what was. I remember telling my husband that we should buy a boat, home school the kids, and sail the perimeter of the Gulf of Mexico. Go far, far away to reconnect our family and start over. It sounded crazy, unconventional, and impossible. Who does that? We have responsibilities and jobs and a home and a life. We bought a travel trailer, stored what we could salvage, and rebuilt bigger and better than ever. Except that didn’t make us happier.

Neither of us were ready for the challenge of starting over, nor did we have the energy. Go through the motions, that is what we did. We learned a lot – our family was safe, communities come together in times of need, and material things really were not missed. After we rebuilt our home, I remember saying, “Why did we do this?”

For the next few years we had our challenges, both at home and at work. I took time off work, stayed home with our kids, and was working at all my roles – wife, mother, and businesswoman. Starting new businesses, volunteering at the kids school, redecorating our house, taking time with my husband…there were times that it all seemed to be working. Then if any or all of those weren’t, I’d feel lost again. My roles were defining me. It was like I was experiencing “empty nest syndrome” a bit early in my life.

Fast-forward five years. It is now the Spring of 2009. I had booked a trip to San Francisco for a getaway after a long and challenging winter season. A week or two prior to my trip, I attended my monthly Literary Club Meeting. A friend of mine was discussing the book Eat, Pray, Love. I am in a room full of lovely ladies and I am crying as she speaks. I ask to borrow the book for my flight to read on the way out. She obliges.

Two weeks later I board the plane, book in hand. Page one. I didn’t put it down for the entire 6 hour flight. As the plane was landing I turn to my seatmate, a woman who appeared to be in her 70s, and asked if she had ever been married. She said yes. I asked if she had been happy. Her response was, “which time?” It was that moment that I decided to get a divorce. On a plane, en route to San Francisco, five years after our first separation.

I think I would have just stayed in San Francisco if I didn’t have all of those responsibilities to take care of at home. When I got married, I thought it would be forever. So many things went through my head. How was all of this going to work out? How would I make it on my own? What about the house? The kids? The stuff? What will people say and think? I had created this amazing life and was viewed by others as this successful woman who has it all together. But that was the furthest thing fro the truth. I had no idea who I was. Without all of these things, I was very lost. I had created a life that I couldn’t see myself in.

When I returned from California, I asked for a separation and found myself moving into that travel trailer we had bought after the hurricane. It was in my backyard. I would feel the need to road trip and find meaning in everything that I saw. Simple roadsigns and birds must mean something. I was looking for a sign, something to tell me what to do and that it would be okay. I spent weeks traveling by car to unknown destinations, reading books, writing, and talking to people. I had been searching for happiness my whole life and knew no joy.

That was my goal – to find joy. Sounds so simple…well, it was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I spent weeks literally looking up the definitions of the two words – happiness and joy. I’d read, write, analyze, over analyze, and rewrite. Finally, one day…and I have no idea why or where or when…one day, that light bulb went off. I had been searching for the wrong things. The adventures were certainly providing me with happiness and even in some cases joy – because it was new and exciting and I was putting myself out there to see what would and could happen. I spent days just meandering through towns, talking to people, driving hundreds and thousands of miles over the next several months.

I remember wishing I could travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia – just like in the book. Instead, I would have to find meaning closer to home. I traveled all right – 23 states, 10,000 miles. Partly with my children, partly alone. Everything from the Ritz-Carlton to a tent. I had no idea how long this would last. I had no idea where I was going. I just didn’t want to be scared anymore, worried about things I had no control over. All I could do was think about the fact that I didn’t want to be lost forever. Being “successful” had nothing to do with how many board of directors I served on, how long I was married, what kind of house I had, how many cars we drove, or what I did for a living. I needed more than that – but what?

Fast-forward to August 13, 2010…today. Six years after that hurricane turned my life upside down and the day after watching the advanced-screening of Eat, Pray, Love in San Francisco, the place I now call home. I hadn’t thought much about that book since I read it a year and a half ago on the flight out here for my weekend away. I made a comment before the movie that I wasn’t sure Julia Roberts was who I had envisioned playing the part of that woman. Someone asked me who I envisioned. Well, I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s story…that book was not my story when I read it, it was hers. It was her quest and her experiences. I had to have my own.

Today is an ending to processing a hurricane, a search for my soul, a divorce, and a move across the country. These events make up who I have become and this is a never ending story. Now – Chapter 1…

—
Brooke Cooley
The Soup Lady
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At the end of June, I had the opportunity to attend a showing of the Pocket Opera’s performance of Jacques Offenbach’s opera La Vie Parisienne, at the Julia Morgan Theatre in Berkeley.

The Pocket Opera is a San Francisco-based opera company specialising in English performances of foreign-language opera. It is the labour of love of the musician, writer, consummate polyglot, and director Donald Pippin, who painstakingly translates German, Italian, and French libretti into English, making special efforts to convey emotion and meaning even in translation. The lyrics do not feel translated; rather, they feel as though they were originally written in English. These are certainly not poor pastiches. Particular attention is paid to accessibility: Pippin and his team do not merely translate the libretti; they also project the lyrics on a screen to allow people to follow along. The Pocket Opera’s goal is to allow everyone to appreciate the lyrical beauty of operatic music without needing to pay exorbitant prices or deciphering non-English lyrics.

I have seen other Pocket Opera productions—La Bohème and Carmen—and the quality of the performances in La Vie Parisienne lives up to the other performances I have seen. Although La Vie Parisienne is a comic opera, unlike the other two performances, it is treated with the same respect for beauty, content, and lyricism as the other two productions.

Broadly, the play is a rollicking, hyperkinetic glimpse of the life of a hodgepodge of Parisians, from a delightfully incompetent major-general (evoking shades of Gilbert and Sullivan), to a gaggle of overfed and undersexed noblemen, to an exuberant Brazilian, to a pair of scheming friends returning from their travels abroad. The entire production is a series of madcap hijinks involving mistaken identities, labyrinthine plots, and even a bit of drag. There is never a dull moment: there is always something to capture the viewer’s attention.

The spare sets and costuming belied the intricacy and creativity of the performers’ work. The aesthetics of La Vie Parisienne did not come from elaborate costumes or lavish sets; rather, they came from the full, compelling voices of the performers, as well as the crackling wit of Donald Pippin’s translation. While I am admittedly fond of large-scale productions with elaborate costumes and sweeping sets, I can also appreciate the intimacy and accessibility of less elaborate shows. The performance felt like a community theatre production, rather than that of a travelling theatre company. This is intended to be a compliment; the intimacy of the performance allowed me to feel a greater, more visceral connection to the characters than I would have in a larger and more impersonal venue.

The Pocket Opera’s performances are excellent introductions to the world of opera, and La Vie Parisienne was no exception.

Finn Gardiner is the acting editor of Synchronized Chaos. He is a college student, graphic designer, writer and soy-ice-cream-addicted technology junkie.

Click the image to go to the linked gallery.

Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 275 national and international online and print journals. He is a self-taught pianist, singer, and painter. His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology (http://www.sundresspublications.com/). The poems which were nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology are as follows: “The Jazz of Old Wine”, “The Symbol of Abiotic Needs”, & “The Misfortune of Shallow Sight”. He holds the B.A. and the M.A. in English/Creative Writing/Literature

from the University of Memphis. Ernest, an English professor at Essex County College, has taught English at New Jersey City University and tutored students in English and mathematics at Seton Hall University. Professor Williamson, who is (ABD), is also finishing up his Ph.D. at Seton Hall University in the field of Higher Education Leadership. He is also a member of The International High IQ Society based in New York City, and he is a “Chess Master” with an internet rating in the range of 2200+. Currently he is rated 2204.

Click the image to go to the linked gallery.

Anthony May’s artist statement:

A process is taking place. We are mortal. We will pass on. What then?

The creative work I have been doing in the last 5 years has centered almost solely around this narrative. It is rich territory for me, as it allows so many areas for exploration. Religion, its strange amalgamation of diversity and sameness, versus science, with its ability to pry sensible solutions from seemingly impossible questions. I am intrigued by the colossal structures and stories humans have constructed through the ages with hopes of minimizing the distance between earth and the heavens, many having been assembled through great sacrifice and pain in order to make a difference on what Carl Sagan has called “a mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam.”

Painting and collage have been the most logical way for me to explore and confront what it is to be human and therefore, mortal. I enjoy working with materials that have lived their own lives in one distinct capacity, retired, and have come together in support of another cause.
As a whole, I want my work to read as an account, much in the way a diary or sketchbook chronicles the ongoing saga of what it is to be human.

www.anthonymay.com