Senior Discounts

by Mark Levy

In general, it’s not particularly pleasant to get older. One often loses his health, his hearing, and his hair. It becomes more difficult to get up from a chair, tie one’s shoelaces, and move quickly. Sometimes it becomes difficult to move at all, now that I think of it. One’s memory for people, places, things, and family member names also fades with age.

In Henry IV, William Shakespeare referred to an ill wind which blows no man to good. You may know the more modern aphorism, “Every cloud has a silver lining.” And so it is with age.

Depending on your age, you may qualify for all sorts of discounts that younger folks can’t obtain. This is a valuable advantage for people who look their age or older.

Senior customers are defined as those over 65 in places like Boston Market, Hardee’s, Taco Bell, and Alaska Airlines, which saves you 10% on flights to places you may not wish to visit most of the year.

But you don’t have to wait until you’re 65 for a discount at places that classify people as seniors when they reach their 62nd birthday. These businesses include Amtrak, Greyhound, Marriott hotels, and Bally Total Fitness, where you save $100 on a membership if you promise not to break a bone on their exercise equipment. White Castle will sell you 100 hamburgers for the price of only 90, which is quite a bargain if you still have your teeth. And the National Park Service will sell you a lifetime pass for only $10 believing, I guess, a lifetime deal isn’t going to amount to much at your age.

Some places choose the age of 60 to separate young people from the rest of us. For example, at Ben & Jerry’s you can get 10% off your ice cream sundae. Hyatt Hotels can save you up to 50% on their rooms. And Applebee’s gives you 15% off your check. That’s like the restaurant has decided to pay your tip. Mrs. Fields is happy to break off 10% of the price for her cookies. Great Clips and Super Cuts give small discounts to 60-year-olds who want a haircut. That may be because there’s so little hair to cut once you acquire snow on the roof.

Discounts abound for people as young as 55 years old, too. Jack in the Box gives those younger seniors a whopping 20% off the final bill. Maybe I shouldn’t have said, “whopping.” But speaking of Burger King, you have to be 60 years old before you get a 10% discount there. At 55, though, KFC will throw in a free small drink – not literally, of course – with any meal.

“How about 50 year olds,” I can hear you ask, now that I’m on a roll. There is something for everyone once you hit the half century mark, you’ll be happy to learn. Krispy Kreme, for example, honors your age, if not your waistline, with a 10% discount for everything it sells. Kmart takes 20% off its items. Steak ‘n Shake is good for 10% off on Mondays and Tuesdays. SeaWorld Orlando and Busch Gardens Tampa both slice $3 off one-day tickets. As long as it’s Tuesday, the Plant Shed nursery will trim 10% off your bill, too.

I’ll share a secret with you. I’ve been visiting many of these fine establishments for a few years now, even before I reached my present advanced age. The discounts are rarely advertised. You have to ask for them. I approach the person behind the counter – and he or she is usually a teenager – and I say in a quaky voice, “Do you have a discount for seniors?” I’m well past the age of embarrassment to ask for it, which is yet one more advantage of maturity. If a discount exists, the counter kid tells me what it is.

Sadly, no one has ever asked for proof that I’m 50 or 60 or even 65. I believe that’s because, to a teenager, everyone over 30 looks ancient. And it just wouldn’t be polite to question the honesty of a person as old as his grandmother.

When my father turned 74, he told everyone he was 75. “You see,” he confided to me, “people respect me more at that age.”

Now I’m thinking that, like me, he had other intentions when he devised his plan.

About the author:

Mark Levy is an attorney with the Binghamton-based law firm of Hinman Howard and Kattell. He is a contributing editor to Ragazine.CC (Feeding the Starving Artist/Casual Observer), and an occasional contributor to NPR, where his comments can be heard some Saturdays at noon.

Rose Esterito

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Painting Pirates Club

brightens village’s future

 By Rose Robin

Photos by Rose Esterito

“You have brought art and culture, the children have confidence in you, you have made the children proud of the paintings they do.”

A quote from Betty, the president of the neighborhood association of the Arroyo Concreto, or concrete river, in the area called el Esterito in the city of La Paz, Mexico. She was describing why she appreciates the work the Painting Pirates club is doing for the local people of her community.

 *  *  *

This article is about the very same people and area of La Paz written about in the book The Pearl,  by John Steinbeck, and the artistic project called ‘The Painting Pirates club’ that is making a difference to a lost generation of children by teaching them to express themselves.

The people living in the Arroyo originate from main land Mexico, Sonora; they are of the Yaquis tribe. They are native Americans who came here to fish and dive for pearls. They were adept at holding their breath and were a great asset to La Paz. I started ‘The Painting Pirates Club’ in October 2011 to provide the neighborhood children and adults a means to express themselves freely through different forms of the visual arts. I felt the area needed to give active children healthy things to think about, and hope for their future success in life. Our overall goal is to teach them they can make an income through art. That expression through art is good for them psychologically, physically, and economically.

I believe in giving people the right tools to make their dreams and ambitions possible.

My name is Rose Robin. I was born in Britain but I have lived most of my life in France. I left school when I was 12 to become an apprentice to two US artists. My main occupation is a muralist. I am also a documentary film maker, my last documentary ‘The fairytale experiment’ won two international film awards. In 2003 I founded the nonprofit “The Quintessence Project.Org”.  The QPO brings artists together internationally to perform, exhibit, and teach. We have worked on group murals with schools, organizations for the handicapped and people suffering from addiction for the past seven years in the USA and France.

I believe that ‘Art’ is a gray area of discussion, a place that allows us to think. I have been introducing street art to the children and adults here for the past 5 months. I am also showing latin American films and artistic documentaries in Spanish and teaching them to film and make their own documentaries so they can tell their personal stories. The Painting Pirates Club now has 10 people teaching on its team from many origins, Europe, the US, and Mexico, and 30 students. In the next few months we will be developing more art projects in other areas of La Paz, including the hospitals, schools, battered woman’s shelter, and prisons. Our current students will become the teachers and pass on the art lessons we have given them.

I asked a fisherman who has lived in the Arroyo for most of his life, Jose Maria Arse Ortega, what he thought about the Painting Pirates Club?  “It’s very good for the children, since so many fathers lost their jobs the children have no one to teach them about the old ways, fishing and diving are not an opportunity for them. When they paint they learn much more then spending their day doing nothing. The kids are proud and they show their painting to their families, they don’t want anyone to graffiti over their paintings as it belongs to them.”

La Paz Baja California south, seems to me, to be the safest place in Mexico. It’s truly beautiful, a real paradise. La Paz has not been ruined by tourism, unlike it’s more famous neighbor Cabo San Lucas, and the locals are nice and welcome you openly and sincerely.

When I arrived in La Paz I had a 37 meter long aquatic mural commission to do for some US house owners in the Esterito area of La Paz. Once I had finished the mural, I had a few gallons of paint left over and I decided to start painting the walls of a 2.5km long concrete river down the road from my apartment.

I started painting early in the morning and within two hours the children started to come out and watch from about 50 meters away. Whenever I would turn around to see, they would duck behind a tree or a rock and giggle. I had two bags of M&M’s, one of which I laid on a wall closest to them. I then had their full attention; they all came running out of their hiding places to join me, and we painted M&M’s on the wall together.

A camera crew from the local TV station ‘Channel 10′ came to interview me the first day of the project. The next day people with the heartfelt and innate need to express themselves, locals and tourists alike, came to paint or just admire the mural, and more importantly to interact with the people from el Arroyo. The Painting Pirates Club was born.

I noticed tagging and some graffiti art in the Arroyo, and I realized with a rush of excitement, that other Mexican artists had been there before me. I later met some of those artists; they explained they had started to teach mural painting for the same reasons as I had. Every time they were stopped by the police, some at gun point. I was allowed to continue, possibly because I’m a European woman, with long blond hair, or because I babbled in my terrible Spanish trying to be charming. Every time the police hassled me, the conversation ended with the officer saying, “Okay,  just don’t tell anyone that I let you continue.” After being visited by all the La Paz police and the machine-gun armed police chief, they now just wave and honk their horn.

Having media coverage was a great help. We have been on the local news three times, and newspapers more times than I know. This all helped to allow the teaching of free expression to continue for the past five months.

Dangers of living on the Arroyo and the economic problems of the people living there.

“The people living on the Arroyo are squatters, they are not legally allowed to live there,” said Carlos Estrada Talamantes, director of Decope, the land developers who built the new housing complex you can see above the Arroyo in the photographs. “They are taking a real risk living there, we have offered to move them to a safer area, but they say NO, NO, NO. They are squatting the land next to a dry river bed which becomes a running river when it rains. It only rains a few times a year here, but when it does the ground is so dry that the water flash floods. The rain water is directed into El Arroyo Concreto. On October 1, 1976, Hurricane Liza’s heavy rains caused a flash flood that burst a dyke near La Paz . The resulting torrent of water did heavy damage and killed at least 435, and probably more than 630 people.  The people will be allowed to stay there until they can no longer afford to. As La Paz changes economically, these people are left behind because of their high rate of illiteracy.”

Betty, who lives at the end of the Arroyo where the water is evacuated into the sea, had this to say about Hurricane Liza: “When the dyke burst and the estuary flooded the town didn’t have time to tell the people living in the Arroyo, and many were washed out to sea.”  I asked Betty how she thought the people in El Esterito were holding up against the booming tourist industry?  “The People from El Arroyo live day to day, they haven’t had time to learn how to get a job in tourism. They have no confidence in themselves.”

An 88-year-old fishermen, Senior Winkler Leon, said this when I asked him about hurricanes. “When a hurricane is going to hit we make a soup with biscuits and cheese and wait for it to pass. I remember two big hurricanes: October 5, 1957, when a hurricane made a landfall on the peninsula, afterwards all the panga boats were broken. Hurricane Liza in 1976 killed almost a thousand people; the fishermen were pulling the dead out of the sea for days, and dead people were piled up outside the hospital and everywhere in the street. We dug a trench for all the unnamed dead and buried them all together. Another tomb was dedicated to the missing in the graveyard. I found my panga boat all full of sand and cleaned her, I still have her today, she is my lucky panga.”

I asked Senior Winkler Leon if he thought there was more work for the fishermen or less since the tourist boom? “We thought there would be more but there isn’t. I think it is because the fishermen don’t know how to sport fish for Marlin, etc. That is why the tourist industry hires people from other places.”  I asked what had changed since the tourism had started?

“Before the beaches were clean and you could sleep on the beach, now it’s dirty and the sand is not white. Before when you didn’t have air conditioning you could sleep outside in the street, now you are not allowed to sleep outside; and besides it’s no longer safe, you have to lock your door and watch out for thieves.”

The development along the coast of Baja has changed the locals’ lives beyond words in the past 50 years. The speed at which the land has changed has left the locals spinning on the spot. The locals were not employed to do the building work for the booming tourist trade. Instead the developers had hundreds of people who immigrated from the main land because they would work for less. Unfortunately as a result of the recent economic problems, the tourist industry is flagging. Large encampments of unemployed Mexican immigrants have started to populate the outskirts of La Paz, where they have no running water or real living quarters.

The hotels that populate the coast have illegally closed off the beaches to the local people, not wanting them to bother the tourists by selling them goods or playing music for money. This is in effect illegal. Coastal beaches, including 20 meters above the high water mark, territorial seas and related resources are under federal jurisdiction in Mexico. These lands and waters are considered common goods which can be traversed freely by the public.

But you can’t blame the ‘Gringos’ or immigrants from the USA, Canada or Europe, who have bought the land and built their dream houses. They had no idea the land was stolen from the locals. Even if the Gringos spoke Spanish, which most don’t, they would not find out, as the locals have been silenced in one way or another.

Education for the children

I asked Betty what she thought of the schooling system in La Paz? “The Children go to school from 8am to 1pm, they do not learn much at school. It is up to the parents to make sure their children learn. Most fathers are tired after fishing and the mothers are mostly illiterate. After the age of 12 most of the children don’t go to school any more, so, the children turn to easy money. This results in sexual diseases and addiction. It costs 5000 pesos to go to rehab, which most people cannot afford.”

Since I have been working in the Arroyo, I have been welcomed into the community, and I am often invited to eat with them. This is what I have noticed:  Most are illiterate. Most families live in a one-room house, all the children sleep in one bed. Most don’t have a water heater. Most have never used a computer or cell phone. The kids do go to school for a few hours a day, but past the age of 12 they don’t go to school and spend their time in the arroyo. Most of the fathers are out of the job, or working several jobs for hardly any money.

It is easy for these children to assume that no matter how hard they work, because of where they come from, they will never achieve their dream. When you give them something else to do for eight hours, it makes a huge difference.

The Fishing Permits

I asked fisherman Jose Maria Arse Ortega about his livelihood? “I have worked for a privet corporation for 30 years.” When I asked Jose what the name of the corporation he worked for is, he had no idea, “I can’t read or write” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

I asked Senor Winkler about the fishermen in El Esterito? “The fishermen used to fish with nothing more than a paddle and a net, they would light torches to fish at night. They use to fish for sharks and turtles. When a fishermen caught a 9-meter long shark, his boat would sink about 10 inches into the water. They fished the sharks for the liver, which was turned into oil, they would throw the rest of the shark back into the sea.”

I asked him about the fishing Cooperations?

“My son is the head of a cooperation which was started two years ago called ‘Pescadores del Esterito’. He is also working on starting a small family fishing cooperation. We had some problems when we started the cooperation as our boats and motors were stolen. Now there are 33 fishermen, 15 permits & 15 boats in the cooperation. The fishermen can’t fish every day, the fishing is only good on full moons and new moons. On a good days fishing a fishermen can make 2000 pesos. The cooperative takes two pesos per kilo of fish to pay for administration. They also have three boats which work in tourism.”

Up until 30 years ago the fishermen could fish freely and sell their catch on the beach or in the street, now they can only get a fishing permit if they work for a fishing corporation. There are two possibilities: Private corporation or a cooperative run by the fisherman where the money is divided, almost equally between the fisherman. There are four cooperations in La Paz and more being founded as the fishermen who can read and write are opening their own. The fishing permits, which they need to buy to be allowed to fish, are 3000 pesos for two years fishing. A fishermen working for the private corporation makes under 100 pesos per day, unlike the fishermen working for a cooperation who on a good day makes 2000 pesos.

The private corporation hands out the boats, and the motors. The fishing permit is bought by the fishermen. If anything breaks the fisherman has to buy a new one. Many of the men in El esterito refuse working for the corporation. Those fisherman who fish without a permit are called ‘Pascdores Libres’ in El Esterito, but are known as the illegal fishermen by most social circles.

Jose Maria Arse Ortega

Jose never asked his father where his family came from before La Paz. He considers himself native to Baja Sur. I asked Jose if there was anything he would like to add in this article? “To love the sea, care and appreciate for the sea. I hope the children can go fishing for free like before.”

Betty

Betty’s family has lived in El Estrerito for generations. Both her farther and husband were fishermen. She is a single mother of four daughters and one son. As a child Betty would go door to door selling her farther’s daily catch. She now owns her own restaurant, which she runs with one of her daughters. You could conceder Betty and her children a success story coming from El Arroyo. She and her children can read and write and have jobs in La Paz.  Betty is also the president of the Colony in El Arroyo Concreto, she often organizes free celebrations for the people in her restaurant.

I asked Betty if she wanted to add any thing to the article? “Yes!! Come to eat at Betty’s! The freshest fish in all of Baja!” She said with a cunning grin and then she added, “Love your colony, it is important that the colony gets organized, to understand the paperwork and the politics.”

Senor Winkler Leon

Senor Winkler Leon has lived his entire life in La Paz, 88 years. He started working when he was 14 years old for the boats importing and exporting. When he started working 74 years ago, he was paid 60 cents of a peso a day transporting food for the ranches. He has lived in El Esterito for the past 40 years, before that he lived in the other oldest part of La Paz El Manglito. When he was a child the beach was full of shell fish. At low tide he would go and collect buckets of scallops and sell them door to door for five cents of a peso the bucket, or he would trade them for food.

I asked him if he would like to add anything to the article? “Yes! Education is very important. When you can read and write you can run your own business. The kids have lost interest in fishing because many of their fathers can not get fishing permits. My son’s children love to fish and want to learn, because their father is not being taken advantage of.”

Conclusion – La Paz means Peace

Since I have been living in Baja, I have been living in one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. I have met people from all walks of life and swam with wild dolphins, whale sharks and seen gray whale babies with their mothers up close. The town of La Paz is full of galleries, and amazing art work. I love it here and I recommend to visit this amazing place at least once in your life time. There is no violence in the street, just music everywhere, and lovely chatty Mexicans who just want to please. At the end of the day you will enjoy a breathtaking sunset reflecting in the Cortez sea. You will know what it is to feel totally at peace.

The problems of the people I am working with are recent. Normally when I work in a disadvantaged area the problems have been there for generations and it’s near impossible to make a change. That is not true of La Paz; if we act now and help educate and give confidence back to this lost generation we will change their lives for the better.

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For more information and videos of the Painting Pirates’ Club:

Visit http://www.paintingpirates.com.

(l to r) Mel Ramos, Woody Johnson, Eric Murphy, and Gabriel Navar, in Ramos' studio. Ramos is signing a print that will be on exhibit in the Ramos-Navar exhibition "Pay It Forward", curated by Johnson & Murphy.

When a student learns

Gabriel Navar Interviews mentor, Mel Ramos

Navar: When did you decide that you wanted to make art your life choice? What artists did you admire as a young artist that inspired you and contributed to your early style(s)? Who (specifically) inspired you most in your early years to become a painter? How did you first determine your initial, personal artistic direction?  

Ramos: I decided I wanted to be a painter when I was in high school after I heard  Wayne Thiebaud give a talk to high school seniors in my class about careers in art. My first big influence was Salvador Dalí, who I discovered when I was 14 after seeing his incredible technical virtuosity with the paintbrush. At first I was a proponent of Abstract Expressionism which was being taught in the art schools at the time. Eventually I realized this was a dead end for me so I decided to paint portraits of my favorite comic book heroes and heroines. The rest is Art History.

Gabe & Mel 1992

Navar: Why did you choose to become a teacher? Was there a specific individual (or individuals) that sparked your interest in teaching?

Ramos: When I decided to make art as a profession I realized I would need a day job to support my activity and knew that teaching art would be the best way to do this.

Navar: As a professor, what was the main thing (advice, message, set of values, etc.) that you wished to instill in your students?

Ramos: The importance of hard work, dedication and clear thinking.

Navar: As an artist working for the most part in California; does West coast painting signify a unique entity? In terms of the contemporary art world, what role does The California School of Painting play? Are “its” unique traditions and values still significant within the contemporary art world? And, why?   

Ramos: California does have a distinct identity but I don’t know why. 

Navar: Mel, I clearly recall being in your painting class, sitting in a class critique, and you stating something very positive about my work along the lines of, “Gabe, paint 10 more like these and you will have a great opportunity in the art world.” I took it to heart and have made it one of my main life challenges. I am still pursuing opportunities and am enjoying the journey and the challenges. A question here, Mel, if I may, what was it about my work habits, painting style, etc., as a student of yours over 20 years ago that caused you to see promise in my work and/or career?

Ramos: I was impressed by your PASSION to succeed.

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Editor’s Note:

“WE ARE YOU Project” 

in Poetry and Art

 Wilmer Jennings Gallery at Kenkeleba

Editor’s note: The following poems were read at the recent WE ARE YOU Project International reading that took place April 7, 2012, at Wilmer Jennings Gallery (219 E. 2nd Street, NYC), amid a select exhibition of more than 30 artists who each contributed a single piece they felt best addresses the WE ARE YOU Project theme.

The theme, as described by Dr. Jose Rodeiro in an essay that appears on the Project’s web site  is this:  ”The We Are You Project International represents the first comprehensive 21st Century coast-to-coast exhibition depicting current Latino socio-cultural, political, and economic conditions, reflecting triumphs, achievements, risks and vulnerabilities, confronting and affecting all Latinos “within” as well as “outside” the USA. The primary concerns of this exhibit are: 1). Latino immigration, 2). Latinization, 3). the current Anti-Latino backlash, 4). the rise of Pan-Latino transculturalism, as well as 5). investigating diverse Latino identities in the 21st Century.”

Our thanks to Dr. Rodeiro for helping to collect these poems and secure permissions from the poets for publication in Ragazine.

* * *

Front row (L to R): Pablo Caviedes; Gabriel Navar; Carlos Chavez; Carmen Valle; Carmen D. Lucca; Duda Penteado, and Raul Villarreal. Back Row (L to R): Raphael Montañez Ortíz, Josephine Barreiro, Alan Britt (aka “El Alambre”), Dr. José Rodeiro, and Nelson Álvarez. On the floor: Dr. George Nelson Preston.

* * *

ALAN BRITT (“El Britto”) (aka: “El Alambre” “the Wire”)

Considered one of America’s most published poets, the Cherokee poet Alan Britt teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University. His recent books are Alone with the Terrible Universe (2011), Greatest Hits (2010), Hurricane (2010),Vegetable Love (2009),Vermilion (2006), Infinite Days (2003), Amnesia Tango (1998) and Bodies of Lightning (1995). Essays recently in The Cultural Review, Clay Palm Review and Arson. Interviews and poetry (selected) recently in Steaua (Romania), Latino Stuff Review and Poet’s Market. Other poems (selected) in Agni, The Bitter Oleander, Bloomsbury Review, Bolts of Silk (Scotland), Christian Science Monitor, Cider Press Review, Cold Mountain Review, Comstock Review, The Cultural Journal, Darkling Magazine, English Journal, Epoch, Fire (UK), Flint Hills Review, Fox Cry Review, Gallerie International (India), Gradiva (Italy), The Great American Poetry Show, Greensboro Review, Hecale (UK), Kansas Quarterly, Karamu, The Kerf, letras.s5.com (Chile), Magyar Naplo (Hungary), Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, Midwest Quarterly, The Minnesota Review, Pacific Review, Pedrada Zurda (Ecuador), Puerto del Sol, Queen’s Quarterly (Canada), The Recusant (UK), Revista Solar (Mexico), Rosebud, Second Aeon (Wales), Sou’wester, Square Lake, Strangeroad, Sunstone, Tulane Review, Writers’ Journal, plus the anthologies: Emergency Verse: Poetry in Defence of the Welfare State, by Caparison an imprint of The Recusant, United Kingdom: 2011;The Poet’s Cookbook: 33 American Poets with German Translations, Forest Woods Media Productions/Goerthe Institute, Washington, DC: 2010; American Poets Against the War, Metropolitan Arts Press, Chicago/Athens/Dublin: 2009 and Vapor transatlántico (Transatlantic Steamer), bi-lingual anthology of Latin American and North American poets, Hofstra University Press/Fondo de Cultura Económica de Mexico/Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos de Peru, 2008; Fathers: Poems About Fathers,St. Martin’s Press: 1998, and La Adelfa Amarga: Seis Poetas Norteamericanos de Hoy, Ediciones El Santo Oficio, Peru, 2003.

WE ARE YOU

We rise on jaguar wings orbiting

a bronze waist before crossing

the torch of Liberty.

We sling ruthless reds, bruised

golds & tropical greens across

hurricanes chewing the Atlantic

coast off Cuba.

We surface the Amazon

with webbed toes.

Freedom’s eyeglasses fogged we

enter each holy house as though

entering a proverbial hall of mirrors,

aware the moon nursing Manhattan

skyscrapers also splinters the icy peaks

of Peru, ignites Caymans in Columbia,

the Quichua in Ecuador, yucca lightning

in Mexico, plus Bolívar’s bones in Venezuela.

We chase amnesia thermals, sometimes,

but mostly we prefer heirloom tomatoes,

lean meats, exotic spices, multigrains

& a dozen-year-old California Syrah

after an exhausting day of painting our

dreams across a canvas called America.

 © Alan Britt

PABLO CAVIEDES

Born in 1971 in Cotacachi, Ecuador, Caviedes has been exhibiting his work for the past twelve years in Paris, Barcelona, Madrid, Washington DC, New York, Colombia and various cities of Ecuador. He is known primarily as a visual artist; but, his forays into poetry are always brilliant.  He studied at the Art Institute in Paris and at the College of Plastic Arts In Ecuador under Daniel Reyes. He won the 1994 ¨Paris Prize.¨  In 1998, in Paris, France, he was selected for ¨Emergent Artists of Latin American and the Caribbean¨ exhibition: A new generation of Artist.  In 2002, in Barcelona, Spain, he obtained honorable mention at the Second Biennial International of Painting ¨Vilassar del Mar.¨

In 2004, he exhibited in ¨Art in a Bottle¨ at the Agora Gallery, New York City.  In 2008, he was selected in the 31^st Small Works Art Competition (NYU).  In 2009, he exhibited in Fusion: American Classics Meets Latin American Art, at the Biggs Museum of American Art, Dover, Delaware.  Also that year, he was selected for the show: ¨Ecuadorian Contemporary Art¨ at United Nations, New York.   Just recently he showed his art at the group exhibition: ¨Ecuadorian Renaissance,” Queens Museum of Art, New York, and also in the Second Bronx Latin American Art Biennial, New York.

ON THE MAP   

Por las familias divididas,

por los hijos de los sin papeles,

por los que pagan más por menos derechos,

por los que trabajan mucho y consiguen poco,

por los de pocas oportunidades en el país de las oportunidades,

por los explotados y marginados del ayer, de hoy y de siempre,

por los que vinieron por el sueño americano y encontraron pesadillas,

por los expatriados que aguardan su patria para un mañana,

por los que mueren en el intento, y por los que cruzaron ya la frontera,

por los que viven en las sombras a pesar que el sol es para todos.

Por todos y cada uno de ellos….

Queremos un país con rostro más humano.

We are you!

© Pablo Caviedes. New York 2011

ON THE MAP

For the separated families,

For the children of undocumented workers,

For those who pay taxes yet enjoy no rights,

For those who work hard and get nothing in return,

For those who don’t get a break in the land of opportunity,

Fort the exploited and marginalized of yesteryear, today, and forever,

for those who sought the American dream and encountered many nightmares,

for the expatriates who await to regain their motherland in the near future,

for those who died trying and for those who managed to cross the border,

For those who live in the shadows despite the fact that the sun shines

for everybody.

For each and everyone of them…

We want a nation with a human face.

We are you!

© Pablo Caviedes. New York 2011

CARMEN D. LUCCA

Born in Puerto Rico, Carmen D. Lucca is a bilingual poet, author-translator  of the first collection of Julia De Burgos’ poetry. Ms. Lucca, whose poetry has been published in Ireland, Latin America, Puerto Rico and the United States, is listed in the Directory of American Poets & Writers. Her awards include the Palma De Burgos, a Silver Medal from the Academie des Arts, Sciences et Lettres, Paris, France, a 108^th Wing Essential Piece  for her contribution to the National Hispanic Heritage Month events honoring Julia De Burgos at McGuire Air Base, and a Disney Teacher-Award nomination. Ms. Lucca’s most recent poetry book is The Sunset Watcher, a collection of poetic meditations based on her observations of life.

RUMINATIONS ABOUT ARIZONA’S LAW  SB1070

Because Law SB1070 threatens my Fourth Amendment rights,

I won’t  go to Arizona,

I won’t  go to Alabama,

To Utah, I won’t go!

Because I could, with my Latino looks, catch the eyes

Of  despots or state officers with power to harass me,

I won’t go to Alabama,

I won’t go to Arizona,

To Georgia, I won’t go!

Because the terrifying Tea Partiers have joined hands

With the rabid Right Wingers to monger fear across this land.

I won’t go to Arizona

I won’t go to Alabama,

To Indiana, I won’t go!

Because I dread the re- incarnation of the fetid Jim Crow,

And any law resembling the Black Codes of the South

I will not go to Arizona

I will not go to Alabama

Or to Utah …

I will not go to Georgia

I will not go to Indiana

Or to South Carolina.

To those states , inclined to spit on the Bill of my Rights,

I won’t go. I won’t go!

©Carmen D. Lucca

MEDITACIONES SOBRE LA LEY SB1070 EN ARIZONA

Porque la ley SB1070 amenaza mis derechos bajo la Cuarta Enmienda,

No ire a Arizona

No ire a Alabama.

A Arizona no ire!.

Porque  mi presencia Latina podria atraer la atencion

Del despota oficial de policia estatal con poder de hostigar,

No ire a Alabama,

No ire a Arizona,

A Alabama no ire!

Porque los furibundos Festejantes del Te van de la mano

Con los rabiosos de la Extrema Derecha  promoviendo  temor por el pais.

A Alabama no ire,

A Arizona no ire,

No ire. No ire!

Porque me aterra  la re-encarnacion del  fetido Jim Crow,

Y  cualquier ley parecida a los Codigos Negros del Sur,

No ire a Arizona.

A Alabama no ire.

No ire a Utah,

No ire a Georgia,

No ire a Indiana

Ni al Sur de Carolina

A esos estados,  dispuestos a escupir  la Carta de mis Derechos,

No ire. No ire!

© Carmen D. Lucca

GABRIEL NAVAR

Gabriel Navar, a California Latino, has always enjoyed making images not only through drawing and painting, but also with words. He has been writing in a sort of “stream of consciousness”, “automatic writing” approach for many, many years. It was not until the late 1980s-early 1990s, however, that he started to write seriously and began organizing his writings into notebooks. Furthermore, while an undergraduate at Alameda College, in California, he considered majoring in writing. Through high school and into college, his initial influences were writers that include literary giants such as Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Edgar Allan Poe, and Ray Bradbury. When he was encouraged (by his painting instructor, mentor and long-time friend, Mel Ramos) and decided to pursue visual arts (specifically painting) as a major in college at California State University, Hayward (now known as CSU, East Bay), he continued to pursue writing alongside his painting. He went on earn his MFA at San Jose State University (in California) because he had developed a passion for image-making…. It was a great time!

To this day, he continues to create poems that inspire his paintings, and vice versa.

So…  what “triggers” a poem for him? It could be a great number of things including a random word or memory that “pops” into his mind (and resonates, for one reason or another), images from a dream, thoughts that stay with him after having listened to the latest headlines on CNN or public radio, or colors that linger in his mind after having experienced them in the morning or evening sky. Navar has had the great privilege of collaborating with Dr. Paul Basler, Professor of Music, University of Florida, Gainesville, on three sets of song movements (involving Navar’s words, music and choral singing) titled Cantos Alegres, Dias Divinos and Embrace Creation. The poem, song and music collaborations have been published and performed internationally for over 10 years.

a walk with Carmen 

after having completed chores around the house and shutting off the television….

… tired of hearing those news channel talking heads chatter about

Arizona’s then Oklahoma’s then Connecticut’s anti-immigrant rhetoric,

she decides to go for a walk and enjoy the gorgeous gray overcast afternoon…

soft patches of violet-blue slowly poking through like widening eyes in the heavens

reawakening to shower sun-mist…. it’s always majestic

oh yes, what a beautiful Saturday, she thought, walking through sleepy streets,

lawns trimmed, jasmine bushes poked by hummingbirds, blond children chasing one another

while grown-ups gossip amongst themselves, some frowning, some grinning

after having walked for about thirty minutes or so,

she notices screeching sounds emerging from the increasingly darkening sky

now turned into a deafening orange – blinding and hollering…

out of the corner of her eye, a middle-aged, self-entitled man with an unjustified ego

swings a blunt object at a green being….

his thoughts, his words resonate and hardly fade:

“go back to where you came from, alien!”

© Gabriel  Navar  2012

RAPHAEL MONTAÑEZ ORTÍZ

Raphael Ortiz is Director of Visual Arts (Mason Gross, Rutgers University).  He founded and was the first director of the El Museo Del Barrio in New York City in 1969. His sculptures are included in many museum collections, including the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney Museum of American Art, where he has twice been included in the Whitney Biennial. He has created mixed-media ritual performances and installations for museums and galleries in Europe and Canada and throughout the United States. His computer-laser-video works are in numerous museum collections, including the Ludwai Museum in Cologne, Germany, and the Centre Georges Pompidou in Paris. His video Dance Number 22 won the Gran Prix at the 1993 Locarno International Video Festival of Switzerland. He is considered one of the USA’s most creative visual artists, performance artists, and poets.

The LIBERTY IN A TEMPEST TEAPOT Poem

(The Emma Lazarus’s “New Colossus” Variation)

THE STATUE THAT ONCE WITH ARM HELD HIGH

LIT THE WAY TO LIBERTY NO LONGER SIGNALS THE WAY

THE WHIRLWINDS OF POLITICS

LIKE A FRANKENSTEIN NOW POSSESS HER

WITH LOWERED ARM AND EXTINQUISHED TORCH

SHE WIELDS THE TEABAG SYMBOL OF THE TEMPEST

THAT LIKE THE EVIL GENIE BECKONED FROM THE TEAPOT

NOW DROWNS OUT THE VOICE OF LIBERTY

A LIBERTY WHOSE GOLDEN VOICE  ONCE SHOUTED

“GIVE ME YOUR TIRED YOUR POOR YOUR HUDDLED MASSES

YEARNING TO BREATHE FREE THE WRETCHED REFUSE OF YOUR

TEEMING SHORE SEND THESE THE HOMELESS TEMPEST TOSSED

TO ME”

DRIVEN BY PHOBIC WINDS THE CROWD OF

FRIGHTENED AND HATEFUL VENTRILOQUIST VOICES

NOW SPEAK FOR HER

SHOUTING PUNISH THE ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS

DEPORT THEM PUNISH THEIR FAMILIES

PUNISH THEIR CHILDREN PUNISH THEIR EMPLOYERS

MAKE IT SO HATEFUL FOR THEM

THEY WILL NOT WANT TO COME TO THE LAND OF THE BRAVE

AND HOME OF THE FREE

© Mr. and Mrs. Raphael Montañez Ortíz

DUDA PENTEADO

Duda Penteado was born in São Paulo in 1968, and studied at FIAM – SP.  Throughout the 1990s, he  exhibited in Brazil, then moved to New York City where he obtained a position at Muriel Studio in Soho, NYC, as an assistant to Sheila Marbain, the inventor of a new “silk monotype” technique, which was employed by many leading contemporary artists.  Active in Brazil and the USA, as well as in Europe throughout the late-1990s and the early 21^st Century, he showed in The Jersey City Museum, Jersey City, N.J.; Biennale Internazionale Dell’Arte Contemporanea, Florence, Italy, 2009; Monique Goldstrom Gallery, NYC; The Museum of Art and Origins, Harlem, NYC (NY); BACI-The Brazilian American Cultural Institute, Washington, DC; Museo de Las Americas, Denver, CO; CITYarts 272nd Mural, “Nature is Love on Earth”, New York City Department of Parks & Recreation, The St. John’s Recreation Center, Crown Heights, Brooklyn, NYC, 2008, 2009; Brooklyn College, Brooklyn, NY, New Jersey City University, Jersey City, NJ, Kean University, Union, NJ; Monmouth University, West Long Branch, NJ; Stevens Institute of Technology, Hoboken, NJ; Drew University, Madison, NJ; Middlebury College, Vermont; UFES- Universidade Estadual do Espírito Santo, Vitoria, ES; UNESP-Universidade Estadual Paulista, SP, and SESC – SP.

He was President of the Artist Certification Board, Jersey City, NJ, until 2010. His  awards and recognition from various institutions in the United States include: Urban Artist Fellowship Award, Vermont Studio Center, Johnson, VT; Goldman Sachs Student Art Project Grant, Jersey City, NJ (2006, 2007, 2008); Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation; The Robert Flaherty Film Seminar, Claremont, CA; Special Guest for Artistic Achievement & Commitment to YMCA Greater, NY-Youth, NYC; American Graphic Design Award, Interactive Multimedia Installation, NYC; Humanitarian Award from the Hudson County Chapter of the American Conference on Diversity, Jersey City, NJ, and received a Kappa Pi International Honorary Art Fraternity Award, Eta Rho Chapter, New Jersey City University, Jersey City, NJ.  Along with Mario Tapia and Dr. Carlos Hernandez, he has been at the helm of the We Are You Project since 2005.   For more about Penteado art and career explore this URL: http://www.dudapenteado.com

WE ARE YOU poem

America, America…
At the turn of the millennium…
Still cries…
Still fights…
Still ignores…
Still sounds… in the four corners of the earth.

America “MADRE” America.

Not longer, white, blue and red …
A new sound…
A new color…
A new brush stroke…
yellow, mahogany, purple, scarlet, gold…
Latino…

No longer only hands of hard labor…
But !!!!!! Lawyers, Judges, Doctors, Educators…
A Senator…
A Governor…
A voice shaping a new culture…

Latino, North America…
America Latina…
We are you…
We are Americans !!!!!!

SOMOS USTEDES

América, América…

En el cambio del milenio…

Todavía llora…

Todavía pelea…

Todavía ignora…

Todavía suena… en las cuatro esquinas de la tierra.

América “MADRE” América.

Ya no, blanco, azul y rojo…

Un nuevo sonido…

Un nuevo color…

Un nuevo toque de pintura…

amarillo, caoba, púrpura, escarlata, dorado…

Latino…

Ya no sólo manos de trabajo duro…

Sino!!!!!! Abogados, Jueces, Médicos, Educadores…

Un Senador…

Un Gobernador…

Una voz moldeando una nueva cultura…

Latino, América del Norte…

América Latina…

Somos ustedes…

Somos Estadounidenses!!!!!!

©  Duda Penteado  2005

GEORGE NELSON PRESTON

George Nelson Preston was born in NYC on December 14^th, 1938, into an art and music family. Preston’s poems have appeared in journals such as Beat Coast East, Black Renaissance Noire, and Dialectical Anthropology. His “Oda a Nelson Mandela” was solicited as the keynote poem at the opening of the Festival Mandela in Santo Domingo 2010.

Dr. Preston earned the Ph. D. in Art History from the Faculty of Pure Science and Philosophy, Columbia University in 1973.   His career in art history and criticism includes installation of the African Hall of the Brooklyn Museum in1968; Curator of the America 500 exhibition for the government of Argentina in 1992, in which he replaced the usual critical catalog essay with Belle Lettre style poems for each work of art. He is a member of the Scientific Committee of the Florence Biennale; and, he has written several books, articles and reviews on contemporary and African Art. Most recently Preston was on the planning committee for The Primero Encontro AfroAtlantico at the Museu AfroAbrasil in São Paulo in 2011.  Preston is a recipient of the prestigious “Editor’s Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry.”

Preston is co-founder of the Museum of Art and Origins, an affiliate of AMAFRO, Salvador da Bahia and Museu Céu Aberto, São Paulo. His career in poetry started with his founding of The Artist’s Studio.  In the book Kerouac and Friends, the photo journalist Fred W. Mc Darrah wrote the following:

“George Nelson Preston had a storefront “Artist’s Studio” at 48 East 3^rd Street where he orchestrated the most important poetry readings ever held in New York. One historic program on Sunday February 15, 1959, included Kerouac, Ginsberg, Corso, Orlovsky, LeRoi Jones, Garcia Villa, [and] Ted Joans.”

Norman Mailer, Paddy Cheyevsky, Seymour Krim, Larry Rivers and Frank O’Hara were also frequent readers at the Artist’s Studio.

It Was 1965, Summer and Hot

flashes kinky-curled-up our hair

and Diana just out of London,

lissome –  as in taught – lycurve

dandauburn hair guilded in tremolo sunlight

our newly whet ardor quaking our clothes.

She was touring and heading for the Alamo

with no more moments to linger in Manhattan

where weʼd met on Broadway

right in front of College Walk and I said

“letʼs meet, go down to Mexico.”

And she took off her panties right there,

“Give these to me

when we get down

south of the Border, George.”

So! You think this is cool?

And before the sun was under

the cliffs across Broadway

over Henrik Hudsonʼs River

I was gone from my job

at the embroidery design factory

wayupintheBronx under the L

! And why, I donʼt know why,

! but I thought about this movie I saw in 1966,

! and who the hell was Porfirio Diaz? But anyway…

So! You think this is cool, huh?

So did I —until we saw a statue

of Lord Tlaloc. He had telescopic eyes,

behind them lurked a million lacrimal glands

presumed to turn prayers to abundant rain

and a coronary problem fed by sacrifices

of conch shells, whole jaguars, jade celts, sting ray spines

and woe made of palpitating ripped out human hearts.

” The campesinos ….uh, the line when the hancendero

 asks, “what did you say your name…” and he says,

“Zapata. Emiliano Zapata.” Alright. So the campesinos…

they were the bleakest clothed trees I could imagine.

Sleeves turned inside-out by humanityʼs void

and so we read the ancient way of writing

on the battered parapets of Quetzalcoatlʼs temple at Teotihuacán

and in the chiseled embroidery of Lord Chaacʼs stony poncho

further South at Chihén Itzá and the campesinos

being suitors of bare lives,

they chased the currents of Godʼs tears….

” (gun shots) No, the horse!

! Get the horse! Kill the horse,

! donʼt let the horse escape,

no dejalo escabillerse ….kill his horse…

_________________________

©George Nelson Preston, Atzcapotzalcualco, Mexico and NYC. August, 1965   

CARMEN VALLE

Carmen Valle is the author of nine books of poetry, among them Trashumante, Haiku de Nueva York and Esta Casa Flotante y Abierta. She also published a book of short stories Diarios Robados and a novel Tu Version de las Cosas. She has a doctorate in Latin American Literature and teaches at City Tech (CUNY).

MAPA PARA ENCONTRAR UN ESPEJO*

Anémona, pulpo, dulce tortuga,

desértico lagartijo, taladro en busca de agua

escorpión militante de las dunas,

brizna de hierba, maguey.

Amapola de las carreteras,

gardenia del jardín oculto,

gomera hecho de leche,

árbol de lilas, limonero.

Guayabas, guanábanas goteadas,

liana aviadora en la jungla,

cebra en la planicie,

flamingo y águila suntuosa,

nube ballena antes del aguacero,

cometa escurridizo en tránsito

al planeta inexplorado.

*De “Esta casa flotante y abierta”, Instituto de Cultura Puertorriqueña, 2004.

© Carmen Valle 2012

Editor’s note:  On March 24th, at the Know Theater in Binghamton, N.Y., a group of poets, writers and kindred spirits came together for a multi-national, multi-lingual session to read and discuss their impressions of life at the beginning of the 21st Century. From about noon Saturday until after ten that evening, dozens of presenters, family, friends and students shared viewpoints, ideas and work, in exchange for the opportunity to be both listened to and heard. This special mid-issue post opens the window on an experience that will not soon be forgotten by its participants. It’s also an invitation to be there when this nucleus of hope that people from all corners can co-exist gracefully blossoms again next spring for a third Binghamton International Literature Festival. 

The following work appeared in the Crossroads program and is published with permission of the organizer (Mario Moroni) and participants. The poem by Diego Trelles Paz appears in another online magazine, and is not available for reprinting. Two original poems you see below were sent scanned in PDF because of the language format (Hakak’s in Persian and Hassanal’s in Bengali). 

POETRY AND FICTION

HASSANAL ABDULLAH/BANGLADESH

WITH A LITTLE CASH

If I have a little cash, I will open an art shop
My modernist call
Will raise echo and journey
To corners of places not reached before.
Let a few days pass by
If I have a little cash, I will wash your
soft feet with spring water.

If I have some money, I will buy the giant sky –

Wandering all day on its floor
Birds will wake me up
And they will again put me easily to asleep.
The world will find my hands in its own
If the crooked line of restlessness
Is wiped away. With some money
I will spend my time listening to the bees.

Faraway conversations:
No longer talking from wire-to-wire
No more wasting of sinew.
Bangladesh, take not of it,
I will rest my head upon your breast
And sleep all night in tranquility
When I have just a little cash.

Translated from Bengali by Nazrul Islam Naz

Hassanal Abdullah, an author of 23 books including 12 collections of poetry, was born in Gopalgonj, Bangladesh. He immigrated to New York in 1990, and earned his Bachelor and Masters in mathematics at Hunter College of the City University of New York. He is now a high school math teacher and the Coordinator of the Union Square Business Academy at Washington Irving High School. He edits a bilingual poetry quarterly, Shabdaguchha. His poetry, in original Bengali text and in English translation, has been published in many countries of the world.  Abdullah has introduced a new way of writing sonnets, where the rhyming scheme is abcdabc efgdefg, with a seven-line stanza pattern. He calls them “Swatantra Sonnets.” A poet of the post-modern era, Hassanal Abdullah, also wrote a 314-page epic, Nakhatra O Manusar Prochhad (Anyana, 2007),  where he illustrated relations between Human Beings and the Universe. His Selected Poems (Anyana, 2010) in Bengali was published in Dhaka. In addition, he translated Charles Baudelaire, Stanley Kunitz, Anna Akmatova, Nicanor Parra, Wislawa Szymborska, Gerald Stern, and many other poets from all over the world into Bengali and 32 Bangladeshi poets into English.

STANLEY H. BARKAN/U.S.A.

NAMING THE BIRDS

Tired of naming cattle & fish,

Adam turned to the birds.

“Raven,” he said;

then “dove,”

prophetically,

these first creatures of the air

who’d be symbols in a later time

of rain and flood and rainbow.

Of the birds who would

sing at dawn and dusk

he had little interest;

so Eve decided to try

her onomastic skill.

“Nightingale,” she whispered.

“Ibis, heron, flamingo,

parrot, peacock, tanager,”

mystery, grace, magnificence

of thought, motion, and design.

It took a woman

to properly name

the birds of Paradise.

Stanley H. Barkan is the editor/publisher of the Cross-Cultural Review Series of World Literature and Art, that has, to date, produced some 400 titles in 50 different languages. His own work has been published in 15 collections, several of them bilingual (Bulgarian, Italian, Polish, Russian, Sicilian).  His latest are, Strange Seasons, a poetry and photoart collaboration with Russian artist, Mark Polyakov (2007) and ABC of Fruits and Vegetables (2012), both published by AngoBoy in Sofia, Bulgaria.  He was the 1991 New York City’s Poetry Teacher of the Year (awarded by Poets House and the Board of Education) and the 1996 winner of the Poor Richard’s Award, “The Best of the Small Presses” (awarded by the Small Press Center), for “25 years of high quality publishing.”  In May 2006, he was invited by Peter Thabit Jones, editor of The Seventh Quarry, to be the first solo featured poet at the Dylan Thomas Centre in Swansea, Wales.  He lives and works with his artist wife, Bebe, in Merrick, Long Island.

SULTAN CATTO/TURKEY

MAZERETIM NEYDY?

Uyumamıştı. Susuz ve aç olan gözleri

uzun zamandır zerre kadar uyku tatmamışlardı.
Kendini bir Mısır mumyası gibi hisseden kız
iki bin senedir gözleri açık bekliyordu.
Uykusuz geçen saatlerini bir

‘quipu’nun düğümleriyle sayıyordu.
Kafası formullerle dolu, formül batağına dönmüş,
oradan oraya, ellerinde ağırlıklarla,
hislerini kayaların ağırlıklarıyla karşılaştırıyordu.
Geceler avuç içlerinde yanıyordu.
tutkulu ateşler kalbinde parıldıyordu.
Natchez insanlarının topraklarındaki ebediyen yanan
tükenmek bilmeyen ateş gibi.
Ruhundaki şiddetli rüzgarlar

yel değirmenlerini harekete geçirmişti.
Sessizlikle başlayan her şey
şimdi bir boşluğa doğru sürükleniyordu.
Onun için hiç bir anlam ifade etmiyordu büyüyen evren.
Cevaplar, çözümler istiyordu.
Hemen şimdi bir son vermek istiyordu bu genişlemeye.

Vücudundaki damar sayısı kadar olan
altmış iki yerde sabitlenecek şekilde
kozmolojik sürekliliği durdurmuştu.
Akordu bozulmuş, sorunlu bir enstrümandı bugün.

Artık bütün dünyası iki kelimenin arasında öylece asılı duruyordu.
Kendisi, aradaki boşluktu. Dile gelmemiş her şeydi.
Bir kedinin mırıltısıydı. Sıcak bir süttü.
Bir dere kadar okunaksızdı.
Sapsarı lamalar onun altın sarısı otlağında otlanıyorlardı.
İki rakam arasındaki sessizlikti o,

Onları birbirine bağlayan, sorularla dolu, apağır,
yıkılıp altındaki sulara dökülmek üzere olan saydam bir köprüydü.
Rakamlara kollarını açmış bir şekilde kenetlenmişti.
Rakamlar arasındaki aşktı.
Onları bırakıp gitmeden önce kanatlarını açmaya ihtiyacı vardı.
Kanatlarını açmadan önce,

ilk kez uçan bir kuşun ne düşündüğü üzerine kafa yordu.
Tekrarlayan ritmler ve ahenksiz sesler

kafasında uyuşturucu bir duruma sebep oluyordu.
Ruhu dans ediyordu.
Ateşliydi. Yanıyordu.
Vücudunda yüksek derecede,
kimyasal bileşimleri bileşenlerine ayrılıyordu.
Ruhunun dökük duvarlarında asılmış resimlerde yağmur yağıyordu.
Hafif yağmur damlaları yüzüne vurdukça titriyordu.
Gözlerimin önünde çoğalıyordu.
Sağ el bileğinde bir lastik bant vardı,

üzerine hemen ince bir gömlek geçirdi

ve zihnimin derinliklerinden dışarı doğru adım attı.
Bir bahar rüyası gibi zihninde canlanan düşünceler,

dünyasından bir çiğ tanesi gibi, hiç iz bırakmadan

yok olup gidiyordu.
Kanatları açılmaya başlamıştı.
Bir kereviz tohumuydu.
Eczacının biri onu bir sakinleştirici olarak veya

diğer ilaçlarının tadını gizlemek için kullanabilirdi.
Çok soğukkanlıydı.

Hem de çok.
Camdan ruhum yüksek derecelerde erimek yerine

kristal porselene dönüşüyordu.
Bazı muazzam bedenler gibi,
bendeki mevsim değişikliğini etkiliyordu.
Çok soğukkanlıydı.
Aklımı kaybetmek üzereydim.
Parabolik yörüngelerde yaşıyordum.
Yaşadığım dünya gibi ben de 13,7 milyar yıldır uyumamıştım.
Monet’i ressam yapan şey çiçeklerdi.

Peki ya benim mazeretim neydi?

WHAT WAS MY EXCUSE?

She was awake. Her eyes, thirsty and hungry,
had not tasted sleep in a long time.
Feeling like an Egyptian mummy,
she’s been waiting with open eyes for two thousand years.
She was counting the sleepless hours with knotted strings of quipu.
Her head filled with formulas, bed of formulas,
she was walking around with scales in her arms,
weighing her feelings against rocks.
Nights were burning in her palms. Fires were blazing in her heart,
like the perpetual fire forever burning in the temples of the Nachez people.
Prodigious winds in her soul had brought the windmills into motion.
Everything that had begun in silence was now moving towards the void.
Expanding universe was of no use to her. She wanted answers, solutions.
She wanted to put an end to that expansion now. She had mesmerized
the cosmological constant to be fixed to sixty-two places,
corresponding to the number of veins in her body.
She was a complicated instrument out of tune today.
Today her entire universe was suspended between two words.
She was the space in between. She was everything that had gone unsaid.
She was the cat’s murmur. She was the hot milk. She was as blind as a river.
Golden llamas were grazing on her golden grass.
She was the silence between two numbers, the transparent natural bridge tying them,
a bridge heavy with so many questions, about to collapse into waters below.
She was attached to them with extended arms.
She was the love in between.
Before she let go, she needed to grow wings.
Before growing wings, she was pondering, what does a bird flying for the first time think?
Repetitive rhythms and dissonant tones were inducing a hypnotic state in her.
Her soul was dancing.
She was hot. She was burning.
Chemical compounds were breaking up into their constituents
at high temperatures within her body.
It was raining in the pictures hanging on her soul’s peeling walls.
She was trembling as the soft rain was running down her face.
She was multiplying herself in my eyes. A rubber band on her right wrist,
she had just put on a light shirt and stepped out onto my mind’s terrace.
Thoughts that had come like a spring dream were slowly vanishing from her world,
like a morning dew, leaving no trace.
Her wings had started to grow.

She was the celery seed. A pharmacist would have used her as a sedative or
to disguise the flavor of other drugs.  She was cool.
Very cool.
My glass soul, instead of melting, was converting to crystalline ceramic
at high temperatures.
Like certain astronomical bodies, she was affecting the changes of the seasons within me.
She was cool.
I was going nuts. I was living on parabolic paths. Like my universe,
I hadn’t slept in 13.7 billion years.
It was flowers that had made Monet a painter.
What was my excuse?
Translated from Turkish by Neslihan Tok

Sultan Catto is a professor of theoretical physics at the CUNY Graduate School and at the Rockefeller University, and was the Executive Officer of the PhD program at the City University of New York Graduate School. Together with internationally renowned scientists, Nobel Laureates and Fields Medalists in mathematics, he is on several international advisory boards. He has also been writing and giving poetry readings for several years. Some of his poems are published in literary journals, such as Yale Poets, The Seventh Quarry (Wales),  Bhosphorus, (Turkey),   Paterson Literary Review,  and Long Island Sounds  (USA), as well as in anthologies—Noches de Cornelia: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry and  (forthcoming in 2012)  bilingually  in Korean Expatriate Literature and Bridging the Water: An International Poetry Anthology.  His first poetry book, Under the Shadows of Your Falling Words, was published bilingually by Editions Godot (Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2008

MICHAEL FOLDES/U.S.A.

FROM: “FORT LEE POEMS”

THINGS WITH SHARP EDGES

I woke up this morning and it was Tuesday.

The large pattern of loneliness settled in

On my head and body like a parachute

Snapped tight by four hands, and full of air.

I didn’t want to think about last night.

There are better things to do with money

Than bribe the gendarmes to give you back

Your car. By law it’s a flat fee for everyone,

But it’s a bigger hit to him who don’t have it.

The fog was lifting fast from the valley;

I could clearly hear the traffic on Route 4.

The mountains in the distance my wife

Said I couldn’t see were hidden in mist,

But later, when the sky turned silver, when

Some blue began to show through, they

Appeared, disappointingly dull and serrated,

Shadowy humps on the moveable ledge where

Heaven leaves off and earth begins.
Later on I took a walk around the block,

A quiet, peaceful walk in the park,

The stranger who just moved in

But didn’t really live there, quite yet.

Michael Foldes has a B.A. in anthropology from The Ohio State University. He has been an editor, contributor and publisher of magazines, newspapers and chapbooks since the early 1970s, including a stint as editor and columnist with Gannett’s newspapers in Binghamton, New York, for more than a decade. He is the founder (2004) and managing editor of Ragazine.CC, the online magazine of art, information and entertainment (http://ragazine.cc); was lead editor on the first edition of the PSMA’s “Handbook of Standardized Terminology for the Power Sources Industry”, and, for more than 25 years has worked as a sales executive in the electronics industry. Foldes and his wife Margot have three children. He commutes between metro New York and Greater Binghamton. His book “Sleeping Dogs: A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping”, is forthcoming from Split Oak Press, and is available online at Kindle, Nook, Apple and other e-book stores.

MAHMOOD KARIMI-HAKAK/IRAN

TOMORROW

What will happen to you tomorrow?

Tomorrow when my friends and comrades
go with love
to decorate the cold earth
with their warm blood once again,

tomorrow when you paint your face
with blood from “Those who walk the path of love”*
so the eyes of betrayal and ignorance
do not glimpse fear
seeing your pale face,

tomorrow when my country’s dry earth
will be quenched
with the blood of its people,

tomorrow when again the hand of lies, deceit and vanity
stretches out
of the senile, ugly, old man’s sleeve
to squeeze
shamelessly and unabashedly
your msooth, delicate throat

tomorow when in every back alleyway
men, women,young, old,
with heads bent to the ground
weeping tears of lost memories,

tomorrow at dawn without ad oub
from the alleyways of my childhood
blood will flood seeping allt he way to the desert.

Tomorrow
will my brothers and sisters
executed long ago
awaken from twenty years of sleep
to receive your innocent bodies
in their embrace?

English translation by: Mahmood Karimi-Kakak and Bill Wolak 

Mahmood Karimi-Hakak is a poet, author, translator, theatre and film artist who has created 50 stage and screen plays in U.S., Europe and his native Iran. He is the recipient of a number of awards including Outstanding Foreign Film (Fort Lauderdale International Film Festival, 1995), Critics’ Choice (Fajr International Theatre Festival, 1999), Fulbright (2009-10) and Raymond Kennedy (2005). His literary credits include five plays, two books of poetry, numerous articles, interviews and translations in both English and Persian, including Your Lover’s Beloved: 51 Ghazals by Hafez and Love Emergencies (both with Bill Wolak). His latest Film, The Glass Wall documents a desired dialogue between Palestinian and Israeli artists. A Professor of Creative Arts at Siena College, Karimi-Hakak has taught at CCNY, SMU and TU as well as at universities in Europe and Iran. mhakak@siena.edu

MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN/U.S.A.

SPIKE HEELS

In the 1950s, I wore spike heels.

They were very high, but I was thin then,

didn’t wobble. I walked through hours

at my job, my high heels twinkly

as Dorothy’s red slippers with pointy toes,

heels in every possible color, sling-backs

and pumps, the clickety-clack of them

on pavement making me feel

as sophisticated as Marilyn Monroe. Older now,

my heels have gone lower and lower,

reduced to sandals with Velcro straps to hold

my triple E-feet. I still watch women

striding in their spike heels, and wish

for one minute that I could go back

to the days when I could walk

with such grace, look with longing

at this marker of beauty, as though

I were still sixteen and not this woman

I’ve become, pounding through life

on confident feet.

Maria Mazziotti Gillan is a recipient of the 2011 Barnes & Noble Writers for Writers Award from Poets & Writers, and the 2008 American Book Award for her book, All That Lies Between Us (Guernica Editions). Her latest book is What We Pass On: Collected Poems 1980-2009 (Guernica Editions, 2010), and she has a book forthcoming on September 15, 2012, The Place I Call Home (New York Quarterly Press).  She is the Founder /Executive Director of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College in Paterson, NJ, and editor of the Paterson Literary Review. She is also Director of the Creative Writing Program and Professor of Poetry at Binghamton University-SUNY.  She has published fourteen books of poetry and, with her daughter Jennifer, she is co-editor of four anthologies.

IFEANY A. MENKITI/NIGERIA

Excerpt from:

THEY WILL RISE

the body of Europe

but an elongation

of the body of Africa

and you talk of ancestors

and I say: Lucy is

up there in heaven

smiling at all of us

that this business of the mitochondria,             

it is not a tale by an old wife;                            

and the talk about a deoxy

in a ribonucleic merger

how can it be about an acid

when it has juju written

all over it?

some deep mystery sprung

from the soil of this Africa

& the mystery is not yet done-

how such a knowledge, it belongs

to a class of things not written down;

which it would make no sense

to write down;

the elders, did they not say

that there are things, a da na

ede ede na akwukwo?

things that will break the scribe’s pen

should the scribe insist

on writing them down?

that when we are born

there comes a time

when we see the end

of our earthly days

but that some among us

when they die

they appear to be

merely asleep

hence the meaning of that song:

mmuo-oma m’lolu n’obu ula

a maro-m n’obu onwu—

angel that you thought was asleep

not knowing it was death

Reprinted from Of Altair, the Bright Light

 (Earthwinds Editions. 2005)  by Ifeanyi A. Menkiti

Ifeanyi A. Menkiti was born in Onitsha, Nigeria.  He has taught philosophy at Wellesley College for more than 35 years.  He is the author of four collections of poetry, Affirmations (1971), The Jubilation of Falling Bodies (1978), and Of Altair, the Bright Light (2005), and Before a Common Soil (2007). Other poems have appeared in journals and periodicals, such as the Sewanee Review, Ploughshares, New Directions, The Massachusetts Review, Stony Brook, Southwest Review, and the African journals: Okike, Transition, and Nigeria Magazine.  In 1975, he was honored with a fellowship in poetry from the Massachusetts Council on the Arts and Humanities, followed in 1978 by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.  He is presently the owner of the Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square, the oldest continuous all poetry bookstore in the United States. This year, 2012, the store celebrates its 85th anniversary, having been founded in 1927.

OSDANY MORALES/CUBA

LA CASA DEL SOL NACIENTE

Billy Bill y Jo-jo crecieron juntos, tomados de la mano —la de ella pequeña, fría y traslúcida como una rana, la de él áspera y pétrea como un pegote de barro seco— mientras atravesaban un interminable campo de trigo. Todas las mañanas veían pasar el tren rumbo a las minas de oro y más tarde lo veían volver en dirección a los pozos de petróleo. Estos destinos, Billy Bill los conocía de oídas: era hijo del barbero del pueblo y en su terraza los clientes melenudos discutían sobre los dos extremos de la línea del tren. Vienen cargados de oro los vagones, le susurraba Billy Bill a Jo-jo cuando en la tarde se tumbaban en la colina a mirar el paso del tren hacia el Norte. Vienen cargados de petróleo los vagones, respondía Jo-jo cuando en la mañana se tumbaban en la colina a mirar el paso del tren hacia el Sur. Ella vivía con su padre en un chalet de madera a un extremo del pueblo, y su ocupación era recoger los huevos de una escuadra de diez ocas que marchaban todo el día con el cuello tieso, escandalizadas por cómo el padre alcohólico trataba a la hija. Jo-jo tenía un solo vestido y al ponerse el sol lo lavaba para que pareciera limpio al siguiente día, de modo que en la noche siempre andaba desnuda. Se cuidaba de no cruzarse con el padre al anochecer y pasaba todo el tiempo encerrada en su habitación, pero una primavera Jo-jo creció, custodiando sus ocas. He crecido, Billy Bill, le dijo al oído mientras despedían los vagones hacia el Sur. He crecido y mi padre me hará su mujer esta misma noche. Entonces Billy Bill con sus manos de barro le sacó el único vestido que le conocía, y Jo-jo comenzó a tantear con sus dedos húmedos los botones huidizos de la ropa de hombre. Sobre los rieles oxidados no cruzaron vagones. Una bandada de aves negras se escurrió por el cielo en silencio. Al llegar al chalet de madera el padre la esperaba, haciendo rodar sobre la mesa una botella vacía. Jo-jo intentó subir la escalera cuando él la siguió, la alcanzó y le rompió el vestido. Ella no gritó, apartó como pudo los brazos del padre y trató de llegar hasta su habitación. Lo más que logró fue abrir la puerta. Detrás de ésta aguardaba Billy Bill. He crecido, Jo-jo, le dijo antes de golpear al padre en el rostro. El borracho rodó escaleras abajo y cuando su cabeza alcanzó la madera del último peldaño murió. He crecido, Jo-jo, ya nadie podrá hacerte daño, dijo Billy Bill antes de arrastrar el cuerpo. Lo repitió por última vez antes de darle sepultura en el patio. Las gotas de lluvia perforaban en el barro y ellos volvieron a revolcarse en el suelo, desnudos y sucios. Las ocas, como paraguas amontonados, se guarecían de los espectros de la madrugada. Me marcharé en el próximo tren, dijo Billy Bill. Vienen cargados de petróleo los vagones, dijo ella. Haré una fortuna y regresaré por ti, Jo-jo. Te esperaré hasta que muera la última de las ocas, Billy Bill. Si no has vuelto para ese entonces quiere decir que no hay fortuna en las minas de oro ni en los pozos de petróleo, y yo iré a buscarte.

Las ocas, una por una, fueron muriendo.

La primera, atragantada con una espiga de trigo.

Una teja del establo cayó sobre la segunda y la mató al instante.

La tercera murió de un infarto que le abrió el corazón en dos mitades.

La cuarta amaneció con el pico surcado de hormigas rojas.

La quinta y la sexta fueron robadas.

La séptima oca puso un huevo negro y pesado como una roca antes de expirar.

La octava quedó atrapada en un mantel tendido, luego de dar tres vueltas ciegas se estranguló.

La novena oca aleteó en un extremo del patio, echó una corta carrera y alzó el vuelo hasta perderse en el cielo sin nubes.

Cuando alrededor del chalet se paseaba una sola oca, una mano de mujer se acerca y acaricia la cabeza del ave como si se apoyara en un bastón. Le extiende el cuello blanco y emplumado sobre el piso de madera de la terraza y lo cercena con un cuchillo de cocina. En la mañana, su silueta a lo lejos atraviesa los campos dorados, rumbo a un tren que no se detiene.

Chocando con varias personas, como si no las viera, un hombre con sombrero de paño y enormes gafas entra en el bar. Se recuesta de medio lado en un tramo vacío de la barra. La canción resulta conocida, pero disimulada tras otra melodía, como descubrir The house of the rising sun en un registro aún más descorazonado. La cantante es una mujer estirada que muestra los pechos a su público, aunque estos no se le ven porque la luz sale del fondo y sólo es posible definir su contorno. También luce un sombrero de paño. Al terminar la canción alguien pide un aplauso para Jo-jo, que es ella. Se quita el sombrero y lo ajusta en sus pechos, de modo que queda suspendido y no deja ver mucho más. Otro grita que devuelva el sombrero a su sitio. Mientras se asoma al borde del escenario, donde le ofrecen billetes que ella permite deslizar en las ligas de sus muslos, responde que volverá a descubrirse cuando alguno sea capaz de adivinar la frase de la noche. Muchos vocean lo primero que les viene a la mente, otros encuentran la oportunidad de blasfemar contra Dios. El hombre de la barra bruñe un arrugado billete de un dólar y apartando a aquellos que ocupan la primera fila se acerca a Jo-jo. Ella le alarga una pierna cuando él exige: En el sombrero. Jo-jo silba: ¡Tenemos un ganador! ¿Cuál es tu nombre, ganador? Billy, dice el hombre. ¡Un aplauso para Billy, el ganador!, grita el mismo que ha pedido un aplauso para Jo-jo. Ella se saca el sombrero y se lo ofrece volteado. Billy, el ganador, suelta su billete, que cae lentamente como una pluma de oca. Mira el busto de Jo-jo y sonríe, y en sus gafas enormes se repiten los pechos de la cantante. Espérame al fondo, dice ella, hoy es tu noche de suerte. Billy, el ganador, sale del bar, echa a andar una camioneta amarilla y da un indeciso rodeo como si tardara en descubrir cuál es el fondo. Frena, por fin, levantando una polvareda con forma de anacrónico caballito de mar que no tarda en disiparse en el paisaje de neumáticos viejos, cajas de cerveza amontonadas, fantasmagóricos cactus sin pareja. Mientras espera improvisa una melodía con los dedos en el volante. Jo-jo asoma por la ventanilla, otra vez lleva los pechos atrapados en el sombrero. Billy, el ganador, se saca el suyo y lo cuelga en la cabeza de Jo-jo. Se quita las gafas y las larga en la guantera. El rostro de Billy, el ganador, hace juego con su camioneta. La barba mal recortada y dispersa, que no alcanza a ocultar las arrugas, una ceja incompleta, se le pueden contar más de doce cicatrices. ¿A quién le has prestado tu cara?, dice Jo-jo. Es el viento de la carretera. Vienes de muy lejos entonces. Vengo de cerca, pero hago el mismo recorrido varias veces al día. Billy, el ganador, dice ella, hace unos años llegué a este sitio buscando a un hombre como tú. Jo-jo, la cantante, tu historia me interesa menos que la posición de tu sombrero. Sube, te llevo hasta el pueblo. Todavía me quedan dos rondas de canciones tristes esta noche. ¿Sabes cuánto vale el sombrero que ahora cuelga en tu cabeza? No más que mis gemelas. Sólo son un par de tetas, Jo-jo, la cantante, no las sobrevalores, y tampoco les llames gemelas, las encontrarías bastante diferentes si pudieras observarlas desde otro ángulo. Vamos, prometo pasar el detector de mentiras durante el viaje y así sabrás si soy o no tu hombre. Iluminada por el único reflector que funciona, Jo-jo cruza por delante de la camioneta amarilla. Billy, el ganador, la ve sostener los dos sombreros como si paseara sobre una cuerda floja y cada uno le ofreciera equilibrio. La camioneta, trémula, avanza con su luz tuerta lijando la carretera. Cuando era joven, dice Jo-jo, vine hasta aquí detrás de un hombre. ¿Qué te hace pensar que puedo ser yo? No digo que seas tú, suelo premiar a todos los Billy que encuentro a mi paso. Pero Billy no es mi verdadero nombre, Jo-jo, la cantante. Me llamo William Moss, y créeme que hace un buen tiempo que no pronuncio ese nombre completo. Jo-jo aparta una lágrima mirando la oscuridad de su ventanilla donde palpita un viento devastador. ¿Cómo llegaste a este sitio, William Moss, alias Billy, el ganador? En tren, Jo-jo, como todo el mundo. ¿Creías que aquí estaban las minas de oro? Nunca oí hablar de eso, vine porque a los quince años un tren me envió de una sacudida. Pues yo llegué siguiendo al hombre que mató a mi padre. Me costó poco tiempo enterarme de que podía ganar algo en el bar, allí me bautizaron con el nombre de Jo-jo, como muchas otras Jo-jo que estuvieron antes y otras que estarán cuando mis gemelas cumplan su misión en este mundo. ¿Y cómo te llamas, Jo-jo? Kim, Kim Jones. Es un bonito nombre, Kim Jones. Lo es. Me encantaba usarlo antes. Y a este hombre, a Billy, ¿para qué lo buscas? Creo que para matarlo. Yo puedo ayudarte a buscarlo. Y qué pide a cambio, Billy, el ganador. Que me ayudes a dar con una mujer que dejé atrás, cuando era joven. Suena bastante parejo. Lo es, Jo-jo, la cantante, es muy parejo. Ambos miran la carretera, que parece no tener fin.

Vienen cargados de oro los vagones, Jo-jo.

Vienen cargados de petróleo los vagones, Billy Bill.

_____________________________

THE HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN

Billy Bill and Jo-Jo grew up together, holding hands (hers were small, cold and translucent like a frog; his, rough and stony like a clump of dry mud) as they walked through an endless wheat field. Every morning they would watch the train on its way to the gold mine and later watch it go back towards the oil well. Billy Bill had heard of these destinations —he was the son of the town’s barber and in his deck the long haired costumers discussed the two ends of the train line. They come back filled with gold, the wagons do, Billy Bill would whisper into Jo-Jo’s ear when in the afternoon they lay down on the hill to watch the passing of the train going North. They come back filled with oil, the wagons do, Jo-Jo would answer when in the morning they lay down on the hill to watch the passing of the train going South. She lived with her father in a wooden cottage at one end of the town, and her occupation consisted of picking up the eggs from a squad of geese that marched all day with their necks stiff, shocked at the way the alcoholic father treated his daughter. Jo-Jo had only one dress and when the sun set she would wash it so that it would seem clean the next day, therefore she was always naked at night. She took good care not to meet her father at nightfall and kept herself locked in her room, but one spring Jo-Jo grew up, watching over her geese. I’ve grown Billy Bill, she whispered into his ear while they waved the wagons goodbye heading South. I’ve grown and my father will make me his woman this very night. Then Billy Bill, using his muddy hands, tore the only dress he knew of hers, and Jo-Jo began to feel with her humid fingers the elusive buttons of men’s clothing. No wagon passed over the rusty rails. A flock of black birds slipped away in silence. When she got back to the wooden cottage her father was waiting for her, rolling an empty bottle on the table. Jo-Jo tried to climb the stairs when he followed her, caught her and split her dress. She did not scream, but moved away as best she could from her father’s arms and tried to reach her room. She only got as far as opening the door. Behind it awaited Billy Bill. I’ve grown, Jo-Jo, he said to her before hitting the father in the face. The drunkard rolled down the stairs, and when his head hit the wood of the last step he died. I’ve grown, Jo-Jo, no one will be able to harm you now, said Billy Bill before dragging the body. He repeated this one last time before burying it in the yard. Drops of rain perforated the mud and again they rolled around in the ground, naked and dirty. The geese, like piled up umbrellas, took shelter from the daybreak specters. I’ll leave on the next train, said Billy Bill. They come filled with oil, the wagons do, she said.  I’ll make a fortune and come back for you, Jo-Jo. I’ll wait for you until the last one of the geese dies, Billy Bill. If you haven’t returned by then, it means that there’s no fortune in the gold mines nor in the oil wells, and I’ll go find you.

The geese began to die, one by one.

The first choked on an ear of wheat.

A tile from the stable fell on the second one and killed it instantly.

The third died of a heart attack and its heart was split into two halves.

The fourth was found with its beak furrowed with red ants.

The fifth and the sixth were stolen.

The seventh laid a black egg, heavy as a rock, before expiring.

The eighth was caught in a hanging tablecloth —after three blind spins it strangled itself.

The ninth goose flapped its wings at one end of the yard, ran a short race and took off until it disappeared in the cloudless sky.

When a single goose paced up and down the cottage, a female hand approaches and caresses the bird’s head as if it were leaning on a cane. It extends the white feathered neck on the deck’s wooden floor and cuts it off with a kitchen knife. In the morning, its silhouette traverses the golden fields in the distance, heading for a train that does not stop.

Bumping into several people, as if he were incapable of seeing them, a man with a cloth hat and an enormous pair of glasses walks into the bar. He leans halfway over an empty stretch of the bar. The song turns out to be familiar, but concealed behind a different tune, like discovering The House of the Rising Sun in an even more disheartened register. The singer is a tight woman who shows her breasts to the audience, although they can’t see them because the light is coming from the back and it is only possible to define their outline. She also wears a cloth hat. When the song ends someone shouts for a round of applause for Jo-Jo, which is her name. She takes the hat off and puts it on her breasts, so that the hat is left suspended and does not reveal much more. Someone else shouts that she return the hat to its original place. While she leans on the edge of the stage, where she is offered bills that she allows to be slipped in her garters, she answers that she will uncover herself again when one of them is able to find out tonight’s phrase. Many shout whatever comes to their minds; others find an opportunity to blaspheme against God. The man at the bar burnishes a crumpled dollar bill, and moving aside those in the front row, approaches Jo-Jo. She holds out a leg when he demands: In the hat. She whistles: We have a winner! What’s your name, winner? Billy, the man says. A round of applause for Billy the Winner!, shouts the same guy that asked for a round of applause for Jo-Jo. She takes off the hat and offers it to him turned around. Billy the Winner lets go of his bill, which falls slowly like a goose feather. He looks at Jo-Jo’s bust and smiles, and in his enormous glasses the singer’s breasts are duplicated. Wait for me at the back, she says, tonight’s your lucky night. Billy the Winner comes out of the bar, starts a yellow pickup truck, and makes an indecisive detour, as if he were taking a long time finding out where the back might be. At last he brakes, raising a cloud of dust that has the shape of an anachronistic seahorse that doesn’t take long to dissipate into the landscape of old tires, piled up cases of beer, phantasmagoric coupleless cactus. While he waits he improvises a tune with his fingers on the wheel. Jo-Jo appears at the window, again the breasts caught in the hat. Billy the Winner takes off his, and hangs it on Jo-Jo’s head. He takes off the glasses and puts them in the glove compartment. Billy the Winner’s face matches his pickup truck. The poorly trimmed and scattered beard, not enough to conceal the wrinkles; an incomplete eye brow; more than twelve scars to be counted. Who have you been lending your face to? says Jo-Jo. It is the wind from the highway. You’ve come a long way, then. I come from around, but I cover the same route several times a day. Billy the Winner, she says, a few years ago I came to this place looking for a man like you. Jo-Jo the Singer, I’m less interested in your story than I am in the position of your hat. Come on in, I’ll drive you into town. No, I still have two rounds of sad songs left tonight. The hat that hangs on your head, you know how much it’s worth? No more than my twins. They’re just a couple of tits, Jo-Jo the Singer, don’t overestimate them, and don’t call them twins either, you would find them quite different if you could observe them from another angle. Come on, I promise to pass the lie detector along the way and then you’ll know if I’m your man or not. Lit up by the only working headlight, Jo-Jo crosses in front of the yellow pickup truck. Billy the Winner sees her hold the two hats as if she were walking on a tightrope and each one offered her equilibrium. The pickup truck, trembling, advances with its one-eyed light, sanding down the highway. When I was young, says Jo-Jo, I came all the way here looking for a man. What makes you think that it can be me? I’m not saying it’s you, I usually reward all the Billies I find in my path. But Billy’s not my real name, Jo-Jo the Singer. My name is William Moss, and believe me when I tell you that it’s been a long time since I last pronounced that name fully. Jo-Jo removes a tear looking at the darkness of her window, where a devastating wind throbs. How did you get to this place, William Moss, aka Billy the Winner? On a train, Jo-Jo, like everyone else. Did you think that the gold mines were here? Never heard of that, I came here because when I was fifteen a train jerked me out. Well I got here following the man that killed my father. It took me little time to find out that I could earn something at the bar, where they gave me the name of Jo-Jo, like so many other Jo-Jo’s that were before me, and others that will be when my twins have carried out their mission in this world.  And what’s your name, Jo-Jo? Kim, Kim Jones. That’s a pretty name, Kim Jones. It is. I loved to use it back then. And this man, this Billy, why are you looking him for him? To kill him, I think. I can help you find him. And what does Billy the Winner ask in return. That you help me find a woman that I left behind when I was young. Sounds fair enough. It is, Jo-Jo the singer; it’s quite fair. They both looked at the highway, which seemed endless.

They come filled with gold, the wagons do, Jo-Jo.

They come filled with oil, the wagons do, Billy Bill.

Translated from Spanish by Francisco Díaz Klaassen

Osdany Morales (Nueva Paz, 1981) is a Cuban author. His first book, a collection of short stories, Minucionas puertas estrechas (Ediciones Unión, 2007), earned the David award. In 2008 he won the International Prize for Fiction Casa de Teatro, in the Dominican Republic. In the fall of 2011 he finished his second book, Papyrus, which recently was awarded with the prestigious Alejo Carpentier Award 2012, in Cuba. His fiction works have been included in anthologies about new Cuban literature, such as Maneras de narrar (2006), Los que cuentan (2008) and La fiamma in boca (2009). His stories have appeared in magazines El Cuentero (Cuba), El Perro (Mexico) and Quimera (Spain). Currently, supported by a Banco de Santander Fellowship, he is doing an MFA in Creative Writing in Spanish at NYU.

MARIO MORONI/ITALY

SALUTARE UN PADRE

A volte il silenzio parla, pronuncia cose enormi, perfino qui dall’altra parte dell’Atlantico, in scene che sembrano familiari, ma che invece vanno guardate con gran riverenza, solennità. Come quando vènti leggeri rifiutano di tacere e riportano indietro lineamenti delle cose, delle mani. La vita di un uomo è segnata da linee confuse, gesti degli anni, ed ancora silenzi, altri silenzi, gesti tracciati nell’aria, anche qui dall’altra parte dell’Atlantico.

Non c’è mai abbastanza tempo per salutare un padre. Non bastano cartoline ed altri messaggi, non bastano le parole appena pronunciate, non bastano anni ed anni. Il semplice congedo è solo un attimo, è lo sprazzo mattutino, ma non basta, nemmeno quello basta. Soprattutto dopo il ventisette settembre, dopo che i pensieri sono andati e la bocca si chiude. La morte è un abbandono? E’ una forma di partenza? Qualcuno se lo chiede, anzi tutti se lo chiedono, anche se non lo ammettono. E’ una dispersione della materia, un ritorno alla terra? Anzi, è un allontanamento, ma da dove e per dove? Ma no, per molti invece è la fine di un inseguimento.

Prima o poi il silenzio ci raggiunge, ci tocca. Sai come avviene? Te lo confesso: c’e’ un mucchio di gente che parla in tono familiare, traffico intorno, rumore delle cose. Poi poco a poco si spengono le luci, si abbassano i volumi, il silenzio s’avvicina, arriva da lontano, da qualche punto che abbiamo lasciato indietro, nascosto. Poco a poco ci raggiunge, infine ci tocca. E’ lì che nasce un profondo rispetto per il silenzio, perché è la fase ultima, l’ultimo stadio: in silenzio e al buio, è la condizione più vicina a quella della morte. La vita è chiaroscuri, solarità, luci varie, intermittenti, alti e bassi, passioni e delusioni, ronzii, ma la morte, la morte no, è solo silenzio nel buio.

Ora la scena cambia, in una stanza, al buio, il silenzio è rotto da una voce, da due voci. Le due voci si cercano, s’intuiscono, un’aria calma nell’assenza di respiro. Ritornano luoghi amati, sfiorati dalle dita, ora un segnale:

Prima voce: “Verso l’unica morte si va instancabili, fatti per morire.”

Seconda voce:” Sì, programmati per morire, anzi nati per il preciso scopo di morire.”

Prima voce: “Sì, è buffo, verso l’unica morte possibile.”

Seconda voce: “E qual è l’unica morte possibile?”

Prima voce: “Ma è la morte stessa, ce n’è una sola, o sbaglio?”
Seconda voce: “Allora la vita è un progressivo allontanamento dalle cose della vita in direzione della morte?”

Prima voce: “Certo, ma ce ne sono di cose da vedere durante il tragitto, che poi è una lenta declinazione, sì che ce ne sono: suoni, voci di madri e gesti riflessi sull’acqua, azioni bloccate in una serie di fotografie, quelle del mare, della vacanza. Migliaia di foto che imprigionano il passato, è l’unico modo per non farlo scappare, tranne che poi le foto ingialliscono, come quelle dei vent’anni, le foto di gruppo, quelle dei parenti.”
Seconda voce: “Sì, le foto di gruppo, quelle della scuola, siamo vivi lì, guardiamo al futuro, anzi sembriamo volerci arrivare al più presto, quasi correre verso il futuro”.

Prima voce: “Certo rimangono vaghi ricordi, come quelli degli errori commessi, ma anche versi come questi:

danzare con i vestiti nuovi

danzare sul mare di sera

danzare, danzare e sognare

Seconda voce: “Che cosa sono, da dove vengono?”

Prima voce: “Sono canti, cantilene, cantari, cantate, in attesa di giovani donne. Senti, una volta a Bruxelles, con un dente cariato, al freddo, ho visto un’alba strana, alle otto di mattina era ancora buio, poi poco a poco è nata una luce. Era l’inverno nordico. Ma a che serve ricordarlo?”

Seconda voce: “Ma sì, a che serve? Ma allora a che serve tutto il resto, i destini incrociati, l’orgoglio giovanile, se poi ci si allontana, leggermente, ogni giorno di più, stabilmente, sai qual è l’unica cosa certa in tutta questa storia?

Prima voce: “No, qual è?”
Seconda voce: “E’ che il tempo passa, questo è certo, e continua a passare, come dire: trascorre, bella parola, sembra come in una vacanza: trascorrere giorni lieti in vacanza.”

Prima voce: “Ora è tardi, cambiamo scena, non so dove sei esattamente, ma ti sento stanco.”

Seconda voce: “Sì, spostiamoci da qui”.

Ora la scena è quella di un viaggio, viaggio attraverso varie lingue, forse paesi mai visti, in anni lontani. Ma senza bocca per chiamare, senza lingua per parlare. E’ un viaggio per mare? E’ un viaggio per terra? Senza occhi per vedere, senza orecchie per sentire. Che viaggio è? Che ora è? Me lo chiedo, se lo chiedono, nel corso dei vari destini, delle varie destinazioni. Partenze in anticipo, in orario, in ritardo, mezzi di trasporto appena arrivati, appena partiti. A volte si è in anticipo, a volte in ritardo, sulle cose, sugli sguardi degli altri, negli appuntamenti. Ma a volte si è in orario, ecco è quello il momento che segna l’equilibrio. Si è in orario con gli sguardi degli altri, si è arrivati al momento giusto: un figlio che guarda negli occhi suo padre, un padre che guarda negli occhi suo figlio. Si è appena in tempo per certi appuntamenti. Si è soli senza saperlo, si è in compagnia senza saperlo. Si parte sempre, alla fine, prima o poi. Una partenza è in attesa per tutti, chiuso ogni gesto, chiusa ogni memoria. Abbiamo avuto un padre, siamo diventati padri, i nostri figli diventeranno padri e madri, i figli dei loro figli diventeranno padri e madri. Sempre presenti, partiti per sempre.

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FAREWELL TO A FATHER

Sometimes silence speaks, pronounces vast things, even here on the other side of the Atlantic, in scenes that seem familiar, but instead need to be viewed with great reverence, solemnity. As when light winds refuse to be hushed and bring back the outlines of things, of hands. A man’s life is marked by muddled lines, the years’ gestures, silences and more silences, gestures traced in the air, even here on the other side of the Atlantic.

There is never enough time to say good-bye to one’s father. Postcards and other messages aren’t enough, the words just spoken aren’t enough, years and years aren’t enough. The simple good-bye takes only a moment, it’s a morning cloudburst, but it’s not enough, not even that. Especially after September the twenty-seventh, after the thoughts have flown and the mouth closes. Is death a desertion? Is it a leave-taking? Someone wonders, indeed everyone wonders, even if they don’t admit it. Is it a dispersal of matter, a return to earth? It is, rather, a departure, but from where and to where? But no, for many it’s the end of a hunt.

Sooner or later silence reaches us, touches us. Do you know how it happens? I confess: a lot of people speak in familiar tones, traffic around them, the sounds of things. Then little by little the lights go out, the volume is lowered, silence draws near, arrives from far off, from some place we left behind, hidden. Little by little it reaches us, finally touches us. A deep respect for silence is born there, because it’s the last phase, the last stage: in silence and dark our condition is closest to death. Life is chiaroscuros, sunshine, changing lights, intermittent, high and low, passions and delusions, rumblings, but death, no, it’s only silence and darkness.

Now the scene changes to a room, in the dark, the silence is broken by a voice, by two voices. The two voices look for each other, intuit each other, a still air in the absence of breath. Beloved places come back, brushed by fingertips, then a signal:

First Voice: “Toward one death we go tirelessly, born to die.”

Second Voice: “Yes, born to die, even born for the very purpose of dying.”

First Voice: “Yes, it’s funny, toward the one possible death.”

Second Voice: “And what is the one possible death?”

First Voice: “It’s death itself, there is only one, isn’t there?”

Second Voice: “Then life is a progressive departure from living things in the direction of death?

First Voice: “Sure, but there are things to see on the trip, which is a slow path downward, yes, there are things to see: sounds, mothers’ voices, and gestures reflected in water, actions caught in a series of snapshots, scenes of the beach, of vacations. Thousands of photos imprisoning the past is the one way to keep it from getting away, except that the photos yellow, like those of one’s twenties, the group photos, one’s relatives.”

Second Voice: “Yes, the group photos, the school photos, we’re alive in them, we look toward the future, we seem to want to get there as fast as possible, almost running toward the future.”

First Voice: “Vague memories are left, like those of mistakes we made, but even verses like these:

dancing in new clothes

dancing on the sea in the evening

dancing, dancing and dreaming”
Second Voice: “What are they, where do they come from?”

First Voice: “They’re songs, lullabies, sung waiting for young women. Listen, once in Bruxelles, with an aching tooth, I saw a strange dawn, at eight in the morning it was still dark, then little by little the light was born. It was the northern winter. But what use is remembering it?”

Second Voice: “Yes, what use? But then what use is the rest, the crossed destinies, the youthful pride, if then everything goes off, lightly, further and further each day, steadily, do you know the only sure thing in this whole story?”

First Voice: “No, what is it?”

Second Voice: “That time passes, that’s for sure, and keeps passing, that is to say, elapses, nice word, like a vacation: happy days elapsed on vacation.”

First Voice: “Now it’s late, let’s change the scene; I don’t know where you are exactly, but you sound tired.”

Second Voice: “Yes, let’s get out of here.”

Now the scene is that of a journey, a trip through various languages, perhaps countries never seen, in distant years. But without a mouth for crying out, a tongue for speaking. Is it a sea voyage? Is it a land voyage? Without eyes for seeing, without ears for listening. What journey is it? What time is it? I wonder, they wonder, in the course of their various destinies, their various destinations. Early departures, on-time ones, late ones, the means of transport having just arrived, just departed. Sometimes we’re early, sometimes late, for things, for others’ gazes, for appointments. But sometimes we’re on time, okay, that’s the moment that signs the balance. We’re on time for the others’ gazes, we arrived at the right moment: a son who looks in his father’s eyes, a father who looks in his son’s eyes. We arrive just in time for some appointments. We are alone without knowing it, we are together without knowing it. We always leave in the end, sooner or later. A departure awaited by everyone, every gesture turned off, every memory closed. We had a father, we became fathers, our children become fathers and mothers, their children will become fathers and mothers. Having always arrived, always departed.

Translated from Italian by Olivia Holmes

Mario Moroni was born in Italy in 1955. He moved to the United States in 1989. He has taught at Yale University, the University of Memphis, Colby College, he currently teaches Italian at Binghamton University.  Mario Moroni has published seven volumes of poetry, one of poetic prose, and a DVD of poems, images, and electronic music in collaboration with composer Jon Hallstrom. In 1989 he was awarded the Lorenzo Montano prize for poetry. His poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies of contemporary poetry. As a critic, Mario Moroni has published three volumes and has co-edited three collections of essays on modern and contemporary Italian and European literature and culture.

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DIEGO TRELLES PAZ/PERU

Diego Trelles Paz was born in Lima, Perú, in 1977. He is the author of a short story collection, Hudson, el redentor [Hudson, the Redemeer] (Lima, 2001), and a novel, El círculo de los escritores asesinos [The Circle of the Murderous Writers] (Barcelona, 2005). His stories and articles have appeared in N+1, The White Review, Paterson Literary Review, Revista ñ, Babelia, Sibila, among others. He is a professor in Binghamton University, SUNY, and the editor of El futuro no es nuestro [The Future Is Not Ours] (2009) an anthology of short stories by young Latin American writers that has been published in Argentina, Bolivia, Chile, Panama, Hungary, Peru, and will be released in USA by University of Rochester’s Open Letter in 2012.

________________________ 

VANTZETI VASSILEV/BULGARIA

ПЪТУВАНИЯ до БИНГАМТЪН

Когато ми казаха, че ще пътувам до Бингамтън,  на лицето ми грейна самодоволна усмивка. Ами да, аз бях посещавал градчето често. Или казано възторжено: „Аз съм горд спонсор на двама колежани на СУНИ!” От тези няколко пътувания първото и последното се откройват релефно спрямо останалите.

Бях сам родител на двама сина и пътувах с по-възрастния към щатския колеж в Бингамтън. Имахме само една кола. От къде пари за втора? Само преди година бях получил гражданство. Синът ми бе в първата десетка на „Уолтър Панас Скул” и бе получил 4 стипендии, но само една от тях, на СиБа Гайги му донесе 1500 долара. Бе приет и в Ню Йорк Университи и Фордам, но парите ми не стигаха, затова срещу разочарования му поглед изрекох най- силния си аргумент, с който разполагах: „Универитетът в Бингамтън е сред първите 10 от щатските в Америка! Виж, АйБиЕм е основана тука!”, а когато паркирахме в студенсткото градче възкликнах: ”Защо не мога да се върна в студентските години и да бъда тук!”. АрЕйа, студентка от по-горен курс, като разбра, че съм родител и ще се шляйкам безцелно из кемпъса, ме покани да вляза на подготвителната лекция, която изнасяше на новодошлите. Бях единственият родител. „Редът е такъв, изискванията са такива!”- редеше приспивателно АрЕйката, но когато от устата й се отрони думата „секс”, дрямката ми се изпари.

Наострих уши. „На таблото до вратата на моя офис има три презерватива: бял, син и розов! Не се смущавайте, елате и си поискайте, когато ви дотрябват! Не е задължително! Безопасният секс е препоръчителен!” Почуствах се неловко. Погледнах боязливо около мен: децата, да, наистина, те всичките можеха да бъдат мои деца, слушаха безразлично. „Правете секс само в собствените си стаи! Виждате ли скамейката на терасата отсреща?”- пръстът й сочеше една от терасите, разположени срещу офиса й. „Миналата година двойка студенти правиха представление! Изхвърлиха ги веднага!” Изби ме студена пот. Ставаше въпрос за …орал секс.

Неволно се върнах в мойта младост. Такъв кемпъс нямахме. Преподаваха ни в сгради на бивши казарми. АрЕй? Какво пък е това? В тийн-годините баща ми упорито ми натрапваше „Половият въпрос” на д-р Август Форел, където професорът настойчиво съветваше да не мастурбираме. После добави: „Има леки жени, които може да ти лепнат някоя венерическа болест!” И накрая оформи родителския си съвет по сексуалните въпроси:” Търси твоята любов! Не лъжи момичетата! Но не бързай да се жениш преди да си завършил!” Едно поколение разлика, през която през вратите на тайнството бе нахълтала публичност.

Нарекох това пътуване :”предпазители в три цвята като национален флаг”.   Пътувах няколко пъти годишно до Бингамтън, първо заради моя син, после и за друг студент, който спонсорирах. Последното ми пътуване нарекох :”Няколко метра тоалетна хартия”. Не бе за добро и бе спешно. Сега ще ви разкажа защо.

Моят студент се бе озовал в затвора. Светкавично прекосяване на щата със стипчивия привкус на неприятно преживяване в устата, справка в полицията, копие от рапорта на полицията на ареста, бърза ориентация в адвокатския биснес на града, наемане на препоръчания адвокат, плащане на сумата за да бъде освободен под гаранция, пътуване до затвора и освобождаване!

В студентската му квартира изслушахме разказа му. Предишната вечер се бе отбил в някакъв бар, бе ударил няколко уискита на гладен стомах и прибирайки се по пътя към дома си, бе ритнал порта на частен дом. „Портата”- казваше полицейския рапорт – „е сериозно повредена и собствениците искат обезщетение от 3,000 долара.” Освен това нарушителят много често споменавал майка си. Много от детайлите не помнеше. Припомняше ги полицейският рапорт. Накрая, сконфузено, но с хитра усмивка извади малко роло тоалетна хартия. Разви го бавно. Разделени от перфорацията на страници, подобно на книга, отделните късове бяха запълнени със ситни букви, сякаш човекът, който бе ги изписал се бе стремял да не пропилее и най-малкото пространство. Затворът, условията, полицаите, охраната, разпитите, черното момче в съседната килия, затворено невинно. Всичко това бе записано на тия няколко ярда тоалетна хартия. Може би началото на една писателска кариера.

Адвокатът ни получи хонорара си, но остана разочарован, че не можа да разбере от полицейския рапорт защо клиентът му бе споменавал думата „майка”. Попита ме няколко пъти. Отговорих му, че моят студент не си спомня, но бях отгатнал, че той е крещял:”Мамка Ви капиталистическа!” Беше левичар. С оскъдните средства с които живееше, аз бих станал и ултра левичар.

Отидох да видя портата. Аз бих я поправил и за 200 долара.

И двамата ми студента завършиха успешно. Вторият се придвижва от ляво на дясно и е някъде по средата. Няма да се изненадам, ако някой ден прочета заглавие: „Записки от затвора върху тоалетна хартия”.

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TRAVELS TO BINGHAMTON

When I was told that I would be traveling to Binghamton a smug smile came to my face. Oh yes, I had visited it often. Or to say it more enthusiastically: “I’m the proud sponsor of two college students of SUNY!”. Of these few trips the first and last separate themselves drastically from the rest. I myself, a single parent of two sons, was traveling with the older one to the campus of SUNY. We only had one car. Where would we get the money for a second one? I had just become a citizen a year before. My son was in the top ten graduates of Walter Panas High School and was the recipient of four scholarships, but only one of them, gave him $1,500. He was admitted by NYU and Fordham, but since I didn’t have enough money, I could only answer the look on his face, filled with disappointment, with the strongest argument I could come up with: “Binghamton is one of the top ten in The States! Look, even IBM was founded here.” And when we parked in the lot of the campus, I exclaimed: ”If only I could return to my college years and be here!” The resident assistant (RA), a student in an upper class, who discovered that I was the only parent and that I would walk around aimlessly on campus, invited me to participate in the lecture for freshmen that she was holding for them. “These are the rules, those are the requirements” uttered the RA-girl in a lulling voice.  But, when the word “sex” came out of her mouth, my nap was disrupted. I pricked up my ears. “On the board, next to the door of my office, there are three condoms—a white one, a blue one, and a pink one. Don’t be embarrassed, come and ask for one when you need it. It’s not required! Safe sex is to be recommended!” I felt weird. I looked around me uneasily— the kids were listening with indifference. “Have sex only in your own rooms! Do you see the bench on the terrace over there?”— her finger was pointing to one of the terraces across from her office. “Last year a couple gave a show. They were thrown out immediately!”. I broke out in cold sweat . . . they were having oral sex.

Without meaning to, I went back to my youth. We didn’t have such a campus. They used to teach us in a former army barracks. Resident Assistant—What the hell is that? In my teens my father used to persistently push “The Topic of Sex” of Dr. August Forell, in which the Professor insisted in recommending that we should not masturbate. Then he added: “There are slutty women who can gift you with a venereal disease.” Afterwards, he formulated his parental advice on the topic of sex: “Look for your true love. Don’t fool girls. However, don’t rush to get married before you graduate.”

A generational difference, during which the doors of secrecy had opened to the eye of the public.

I called this trip “Condoms in Three Colors as a National Flag.”  I traveled a few times a year to Binghamton, at first because of my son, then for a student, whom I already mentioned, whom I sponsored. I called my last trip “A Few Yards of Toilet Paper.” It wasn’t something positive, but it was urgent. I will now tell you why.

My student found himself in prison. Crossing the state like lightning, with a bad taste in the mouth, caused by an unpleasant experience, an inquiry in the police station, a copy of the police report of the arrest, a quick orientation of the available lawyers in the city, hiring of the recommended attorney, payment of the bail money so he could be freed under a guarantee, traveling to the prison, and finally getting him free.

We heard his story in his student apartment. He had gone to a bar the night before, had a couple of whiskeys on an empty stomach, and on his way home had kicked in the door of a private home. The police report said: ”The door is badly damaged and the owners are asking for retribution of $3,000. In addition, the perpetrator mentioned his mother very often. He didn’t remember many details. The police report was reminding him of some of them. At the end, embarrassed, but with a sly smile he took out a small roll of toilet paper. He unrolled it slowly. The separate sheets were full of small letters, as if the guy who had written them, had tried not to waste even the smallest space. The jail, the conditions, the policemen, the guard, the questioning, the black guy in the next cell who was put in jail even though innocent, all of these was written on these few yards of toilet paper. It was perhaps the beginning of a writer’s career.

The attorney got his fees, but he was disappointed that he couldn’t figure out from the police report why his client had been mentioning the word “mother.” He asked me a few times. I told him that my student didn’t remember, but I had guessed that he had been screaming, “You capitalist mother!”  He was a leftist. If I lived on the limited means that he was living on, I would have become an extreme leftist!

I went to see the door. I could fix it for $200.

Both of my students graduated successfully. The second one moved from the left to the right and now is in the middle. I wouldn’t be surprised if some day I would read “Notes From Prison on a Toilet Paper.”

Translated from Bulgarian by the author

Vantzeti Vassilev, born in 1945 in Radomir, Bulgaria. He earned a PhD in chemical engineering in Sofia. He immigrated in 1988 and has lived in New York since 1989. He worked for the New York Department of Environmental Protection. He is the author of  The Seeds of Fear (1991), a novel based on autobiographical data describing life in Bulgaria for the past 50 years and the absurdities that result from totalitarian society. A portion of the novel describes the lives of prisoners held without sentence in Belene, the infamous concentration camp in Bulgaria. These stories were told firsthand to the author by the prisoners. The novel was presented at the 20th Annual International Arts Festival 1991 of Cross-Cultural Communications in  New York. His second novel, The Trains of Roma, was published in 2006. The book was presented at the Frankfurt Book Fair 2009. His third book, Short Stories from NYPL, was published in 2011.

JOE WEIL/U.S.A.

ACADEMIA

You are nothing

you are

nothing you

are

nothing if not that bright glint

of semen

or is that  seagull on the horizon?

Distinguished by the sibilants of excellence:

the bright ivory tusk that gores you

brings you down to mix the blood of your thigh

with the dust or is that some other story?

Oh yes. You were digressing.

It is another story: it will not fit in with the works published section

it comes out of the sun and makes you squint, makes you

vomit up your dead, as if you were a sea of

qualifying adjectives:

They will tell you this poem is too obscure.

You are angry. You never meant to be. There is

the grey man – over there

he is mistranslated, and the red woman over there

who is misread, and every one is guarded

as if the boar were already prowling the quad

it’s eloquent achievements skewered high up

on its tusks.

Joe Weil is currently a lecturer in the creative writing department at Binghamton University. He has published three full-length books of poetry as well as three chap books, the latest of which is The Plumber’s Apprentice, New York Quarterly press. He is also active as an editor (formerly editor of Ragazine, currently of MAggy), and promoter of poetry. For a year he was publisher of Monk books and produced three chaps, one by the Pulitzer Prize winner, Mark Strand. Weil has a book of poems and photographs done with his friend, the artist Marco Munoz, as well as an e book of sonnets. After a long break, he has begun to compose music again.

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Crossroads included a special event, so to speak, the reading of Stanley Kunitz’s poem “The Layers” in English, and then in several translations. Among the translations was one by Dr. John Smelcer in the native Ahtna, a disappearing native Alaskan language. Both the English original and Smelcer’s translation are reprinted here. Many thanks to “the other Stanley” (Barkan) for facilitating the multi-lingual reading of the poem.

THE LAYERS

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face.

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

“Live in the layers,

not on the litter.”

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

Stanley Kunitz

Nen’tah Dzi

Stanley Kunitz’s “The Layers” translated into

 the Ahtna Athabaskan language of Alaska

by John E. Smelcer

Sii ghayaał dez’aan,

sedze’ eldaan’,

‘eł sii cic’uunen,

hwna eldaan’ ‘ida’

sii ‘estayteltaen stadelnen.

Sii ‘aen cit’aa’ak’e,

daak ‘aen sił’aa

tse tiye’ niłkanazilae

xuk’a t’uu yuuł,

sii ‘aen kayax kudghił’iitden

niłyihghatses ts’en yabaaghe

‘eł kon’ c’et’

c’aa kuk’tl’aa ninesk’ae,

k’edze’ tsiin ceyiige’

t’ak k’e ts’enla’ des.

Sii tsii gha denaey

yii sii gheli ts’aat,

‘eł denaey nadestaan!

Xaa c’asule’ ciz’aani uts’e kat’aen

ye dghos’itkay stadelnen?

Łts’ii niyaan

kon’ laedze’ ‘iita latsiin,

uyiits’ kulaele da’a k’edze’,

ts’iic unaen ghizet.

Sii nakeltaen, sii nakeltaen,

neniic uyighiyaa duuhwk’etle,

kae łaltsicdze’ tiye’

ndaa sii daetl’,

‘eł ‘aal ts’es k’e ten caax.

Yii tets t’uut’,

hwna yanlaey na’aay

‘el sii ghayaał tah tlaegge’,

yanlaey naes zaegge’ yanihwdinitaan:

“Ikae zdaa nen’tah dzi, c’eye’ ke’ łaets.”

Sii hwyaa lae ts’aan,

cu gutse eldaan’

yii giligak cu’ts’endze’

lae da’a stsesi.

Sii c’eye’ tl’aa cu’ts’endze’.

 _____________________

R to L: Weil, Abdullah, Barkan, Moroni, Karimi-Hakak, Gillan, Foldes, Catto & Vassilev. Not pictured: Trelles Paz, Morales & Menkiti. (Petr Savrda Photo).

©2011 Adeel Halim

A dhobhi bathes inside a wash pen filled with soap water.

©2011 Adeel Halim

Shadow of a dhobhi falls on a clothing as he washes clothes along with other dhobhis. Around 200 dhobi families work together here.

©2011 Adeel Halim

A man washes clothes.

……………………………………………………………………………………

Dhobhi Ghat

Life at the World’s Largest Laundromat

A unique feature of Mumbai, the dhobhi is a traditional laundryman, the “laundries” are called “ghats”. The word Dhobhi Ghat is used all over India to refer to any place where many washers are present. The most famous of these Dhobhi Ghats is at Saat Rasta (seven roads) near Mahalaxmi Station in Mumbai, which is also termed as the world largest outdoor laundry.

If you send your clothes for a wash in Mumbai, India, chances are good that they’ll end up here at the Dhobhi Ghat. But you won’t find any machines here. Close to two hundred dhobhis and their families wash clothes by hand in row upon row of concrete wash pens, each fitted with its own flogging stone. The clothes are soaked in sudsy water, thrashed on the flogging stones, then tossed into huge vats of boiling starch and hung out to dry. Next they are ironed and piled into neat bundles.

Dhobhi Ghat is a popular tourist destination amongst foreign and Indian tourists visiting Mumbai.

……………………………………………………………………………………

……………………………………………………………………………………

Adeel Halim

Before Adeel Halim started to take photography seriously, he got a law degree from the Government Law College in Mumbai, India. He didn’t follow up on becoming a lawyer, though. Instead, Halim started working as a photojournalist for Reuters. But after a few years, Halim got itchy feet. He left the news wire to pursue street photography — the art of candid photos of everyday people. Although Halim travels extensively and works for Bloomberg News and The New York Times, his home base is still in India, where he finds no end of exciting subjects for his work. Halim’s latest project, documenting Mumbai’s Dhobhi Ghat, or open laundry, combines his love of street photography with his background in photojournalism to illustrate a cultural custom that may well be threatened by advancing technology.

For more on Adeel Halim’s work, visit www.adeelhalim.com

……………………………………………………………………………………

Want to visit Mumbai? Information here: wikitravel.org/en/Mumbai#b

Wkimedia Commons

José Rodeiro, Hips Don't Lie ...

What, me an alien?

By Tara Dervla

José Rodeiro’s HIPS DON’T LIE (“Sonoran Dawn”) is a duende-filled image inspired by Goya’s Black Paintings and Goitia’s provocative mystic-images; wherein a unique iconology prevails that is simultaneously dramatic, tragic, hilarious, cynical and ironic, i.e., using “aliens” as symbols for Hispanic-alienation.

Against a blazing Sonoran dawn beaming rays of sunlight over a blue mountain range (somewhat reminiscent of Arizona’s state-flag); two extraterrestrials stand vexed (preparing for combat) sizing-up an approaching throng of Latinos led by Shakira.  Additionally, the image depicts four flying saucers darting about the sky with searchlights probing for armadillos, ancient Amerindian petroglyphs, or terra firma (a sensible spot to land and colonize).  In the sky, the Hopi’s Hotomqam constellation (aka “Orion”) reaffirms the underlying outerspace theme, which is also echoed by the ancient Hopi ancestral petrogylphs of hybrid ant-men, or the divine Masau’u (the ancient caretaker of the earth and the Hopi’s god of death).

As in past centuries; since the 9/11 attacks, thousands of US-Latinos bravely defend the USA in perilous theatres-of-war.   Rodeiro’s HIPS DON’T LIE (“Sonoran Dawn”) considers the infinite (“Maya 2012 related”) possibilities that, e.g., haunt Jonathan Liebesman’s 2011 thought-provoking film BATTLE: LA.   Would we have sufficient numbers of US-Latinos available to fight, when “predictably” a full-scale invasion of powerful and technologically-advanced extraterrestrials invade our beloved nation?   Would we (as Americans) be able to quickly, patriotically, fully and properly defend the USA, with “100%” honor and effort; after the shameful treachery that was recently leveled against America’s deepest values by Governor Jan Brewer on April 28, 2011, when she imprudently signed another [(in a string of anti-American/anti-Latino laws generated by Arizona’s perfidious legislature)] vile law SB 1406, authorizing the building of a “bigger” inhospitable and ignominious fence along Arizona’s border with Mexico, doing inestimable harm to both nature, the US-economy, all life and humanity.  In his painting, Rodeiro depicts a dead armadillo, symbolizing the threat to nature posed by an enormous fence along the US-border with Mexico.

Sadly, in the Southwest already a thousand miles of fencing exists, separating the USA from Mexico and indirectly from all of Latin America.  However, Rodeiro’s HIPS DON’T LIE (“Sonoran Dawn”) asks, “What if (during Southwestern “waking-hours”), the “real” aliens are already there on the “border” cavorting, scouting logistics for their interplanetary invasion?” For example, in 1947, an alien spacecraft allegedly crashed nearby at Roswell, New Mexico.  Ultimately, the question is: “Will we be able (as a nation) to quickly arm enough loyal and battle-hardened Latinos [(who, since 1776, have valiantly fought for America)] to save the USA, when so many awkward, ugly, and ill-conceived obstacles (“fences”) stand in their way?   Or, (in truth) stand in the way of FREEDOM!”

Exactly a year earlier in April 29, 2010, the Colombian pop-star Shakira and the Hon. Phil Gordon (the mayor of Phoenix) sparked enormous Pro-Latino protests against an earlier ethno-racist Arizona law: SB 1070 Law.  During that protests 200,000 Latinos listened to Shakira advocate for human rights, civil rights, and freedom.  Referencing Eugène Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People (1830), Rodeiro places Shakira and Phil Gordon at the forefront of the Latino struggle, which is symbolized by yearning Hispanic masses, (which follow Shakira’s “Star Spangled Banner” (“Old Glory”), derived from David Alfaro Siqueiros’s murals in the Castillo de Chapultepec (Mexico City) entitled From Porfirio’s Diaz’s Dictatorship to the Revolution (1958).   Interestingly, a United States map (with subtle, shifting, and dynamic chiaroscuro borders) emerges from the shadow of this multitude, e.g., the Florida peninsula’s shadow is caste by a tall nude man (in the center of the composition).

For more about Rodeiro visit: http://www.rodeiro-art.com/ .

 The Corporation’s New Clothes

LA resolution puts people first

By Eleanor Goldfield

Unlike most days when my lungs are filled with smog, and my east coast tongue twitches with curt, smart ass one-liners to spew at unsuspecting “dudes” and “dudettes,” today I am very proud to live in LA. December 6^th 2011: Los Angeles becomes the first major US city to pass a resolution stripping corporations of their constitutional personhood rights. And, as a side note, it’s my 25^th birthday. Not too shabby of a birthday gift. The vote was unanimous: 11-0. The line of supporters ran out the door and coiled around the block as if Splash Mountain had temporarily relocated to the statuesque old Hollywood glamour of LA City Hall.

Move to Amend, the organization that put forth the resolution, has gained significant ground in the past few months. The LA chapter co-chair, Mary-Beth Fielder (who was recently interviewed on KPFK as well as MSNBC discussing the resolution vote, as well as the foundations and goals of the group) spoke emotionally after the vote.

“This is an incredibly historic day. Los Angeles is the first major city in the United States to call for a Constitutional Amendment to clearly establish that only human beings are entitled to constitutional rights and that money is not the same as free speech…”

“This is putting us back in control,” she said on KPFK a few days earlier, “giving us the power to regulate corporations in the way we see fit.”

The idea of us, we, the people, being back in control is at the core of Move to Amend’s agenda. It is also, interestingly enough, what is behind the Occupy movement. That correlation is a major reason why Move to Amends numbers have grown from the teens to the hundreds recently. I say interestingly enough because one would think that with all the national and international attention this movement has garnered, they would be the ones using that press to infiltrate the legislative branch of government, pushing pens into politicians’ hands and demanding the rights and freedoms of people be held above the bottom line, above any query regarding pizza as a vegetable.

As you may have noticed, if you’ve followed the movement, there has been much talk but little change. The powers that be haven’t nervously acquiesced to anything. The power of the people has not risen in any form due to the tents or tenets of the Occupy camps. The good intentions of Occupiers have been tarnished by lack of organization and vague goals, something that has either pushed people away or brought people to groups such as Move to Amend. In a way Occupy has given the movements such as Move to Amend the fanfare and show they needed to grow – the same way one gains the attention of a 2-year-old with a flashy toy.

Now, the soggy, torn up grass of my local Occupy LA camp is not what one would term flashy. In its 50-some odd days, the camp can easily be compared to any tragic Hollywood starlet − starting off shiny and new, full of hope and promise. But without guidance, fading into a fleeting image adorning nostalgic coffee houses, whispering among the who’s whos until the name fades, the memory a soft impression on a bygone era.

The first march drew thousands, each subsequent march clawing at the 1,000 mark and dwindling from there. And those are the marches that came to fruition. Some nationally planned Occupy marches just didn’t happen due to lack of organization and planning. Now, with the Occupy movement at a crossroads of fight or flight, these outside movements are picking up steam and using that first flash of recognition to catapult into the political spotlight.

* * * 

On your typical November LA morning, the sun shining, a soft breeze and a comfortable temperature of 65/70, I made my third visit to the north side of the Occupy LA camp in less than a half hour. As I irritatingly turned the corner around a tent with a Ron Paul sign out front, I noticed a middle-aged man give a slight chuckle as he lit his cigarette.

“Looking for something?” he asked, shoving his hand back into his pocket and taking a deep puff.

“Well yeah. I’m trying to organize for my band to play and I keep getting bounced around like a damn pin ball. It’s ironically similar to a corporate call center.”

Move to Amend panel, Occupy LA

That produced a deep laugh. At the time, I didn’t find it funny at all. Trying to push back to solemnity I asked if he knew who I could talk to. He shrugged, sighed and scratched his unkempt beard. “I live here and still don’t know who’s in charge. Because no one is. Bitching about something isn’t the same as doing something about it. Right now we’re just bitching − in tents. I support coz I believe in the cause. But I don’t see it lasting much longer if we can’t get our act together.”

As I looked around, surveying a scene of mixed messages and little kinetic energy to speak of, I knew he was right. Not quite knowing how to respond, I returned his shrug and tried one last time to find the head of the arts committee who according to two people, but not the third, was also the head of the first aid tent. I left not too long after, seemingly with less information than I had come over with.

I live in downtown LA, about a 5-minute walk from the Occupy site, and of the dozen or so times that I went over there, I was, more often than not, disappointed when I left. Like the man I spoke to, I believe in this movement. I have based an entire band on it. I write, sing and work for the goal of a government of the people, by the people and for the people. But Occupy LA was not this movement.

Occupy LA was a collection of varied opinions, bound together by nothing more than geography and the manufactured feeling of community that a camping trip brings. It may sound harsh, but let’s be realistic. A leaderless movement has no future. The Occupy movement’s official stance on this states that they are a “not a leaderless movement, but a movement of leaders,” which to me sounds even worse. That’s like throwing a bunch of alpha males into a tent and seeing what they come up with. Probably not a clear cut plan of action…

A movement with no clear goals or plans for reaching those goals loses steam before the coals get hot. Bringing people together is a commendable feat. But once they’re there, what are you going to do with them? I first walked over, flag in hand, a journal full of ideas and plans, from events and shows to elections and business planning. At one of the GA’s someone suggested that our main focus be composting. Another time someone stopped me and asked if I would give my life for a communist nation. And still another time someone asked me if I’d like to fuck for peace. No joke.

Now, I’m not trying to come down too hard on these people. I thoroughly believe that people should believe whatever the hell they want to. And I commend the people in the Occupy movement who have worked hard, who have tried for change. But with that cluster fuck blueprint, significant political change is impossible. Not all these beliefs can live under the same movement. There is a communist movement. I’m sure there’s a fuck for peace movement somewhere, as well. But this movement, this idea based on our rights as US citizens, our freedoms and liberties, our future as a republic − this movement seeks to completely rework the corrupted and viciously powerful government corporation our nation has become. That’s one helluva tall order. And that order requires, no, it demands, fierce organization, determination and planning.

* * *

That said, the Occupy movement is invaluable. It may be about as organized as a mosh pit, but it has valuable attributes that can not be overlooked. Whether it means to or not, it makes use of the entertainment medium. Having been an activist for quite some time, my eureka moment came when I thought of adding my passion of music to my passion of political and social involvement.

Move to Amend isn’t trendy, it isn’t chic. It is what political movements should be: straightforward, determined and organized. However, that doesn’t always up your numbers. In all reality, people may say they give a damn, but until they’re either forced to or seduced, they don’t. Forced to is an awkward situation that either presents itself through a total national meltdown (not that I’m striking that from the list of possibilities) or literal force.

Neither one is something a peace loving movement should be aiming for. That leaves seduction. In the 1960s, it was literal seduction: Jim Morrison’s leather pants, Woodstock, mind opening drugs that just made you wanna dance and make out. But, be careful lest the seduction become more fascinating than the goal itself. The more solemn Civil Rights movement passed ground breaking legislation. The peace movement limped away from an arrogant government’s blood soaked retreat, embittered and hungover. But what if, looking at both strategies, we could intertwine the entertaining seduction of the peace movement with the solemn, heroic stand of the civil rights movement? If we let organizations like Move to Amend temper and focus the thrills and frills of the Occupy Movement…

Let’s learn from the past and avoid its mistakes. In the aftermath of the civil rights and peace movements, a visionary, one president and one presidential hopeful had been murdered. A war had been lost, embarrassingly so. The burnt draft cards and noble stands did not make up for the lack of diplomacy or intelligence in the halls of the mighty. The legislation of the civil rights movement was a shining positive. It came towards the end of an era, the end of a time when our country concerned itself with the rights and freedoms of its people. The haze of the late ’60s and early ’70s left the country with a sour taste in its mouth, and a depressive disdain not only for government but for popular culture. As if it were a last hurrah, the civil rights legislation signaled a move away from political and social involvement and towards apathy and distrust. Consider the timely beginnings of Neo-conservatism, free market experimentation and freedom crusades (i.e. South America in the early-mid 1970s).

Now, I don’t mean to write a lecture on the history of our fuck-ups. I’d merely like to point out that our history is the foundation for this movement. Our constitutional rights, our pitfalls and victories as citizens dictate the fight we are undertaking.

Keeping Fear Alive

There is a quote by Penn Warren, used by my father in one of his books, and used by my mother in a painting that still hangs in the living room – I can recall passing it many times as a child, and being drawn to the rough edges of the papyrus paper she used, the strong profile of my father paralleled to that of a Syrian king. I can recall dissecting the quote, filtering it through my mind each year, further wrapping its meaning with my own history, patiently pondering as if it were a philosophical treasure map: “If you could not accept the past and its burden, there was no future, for without one there can not be the other, and if you could accept the past, you might hope for the future, for only out of the past can you make the future.”

Out of our collective history, let us make a better future.

This isn’t about one war, or one right. This is about all our wars, and all our rights. This is about everything that trickles down from the corporate peaks of a stolen government. So let us use all of our talents. Let’s seduce those who see this fight either as a hippie commune party or a droll gathering of intellectuals.

I sing, I write, I speak. There are those who make people laugh (Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert), those who lecture, those who teach. Every American has some way of contributing, because every American’s future is tightly tied to the path of this movement. Every American has a different way of joining − a different way they can be seduced. I’ve had people come up to me after shows and say they are not political at all, but wow that’s fucked up about the corporations. I’ve had people come with me to marches because they thought I was good looking. They might leave with blue balls but I’m happy to say every one has left with more knowledge and a spark to dig deeper.

Not everyone is cut out to be the one at the front, carrying signs and shouting slogans. I’m not. But understand that the march isn’t what the movement is about. It’s merely a means.

Let’s make it clear. As with the civil rights movement, we need legislation. Marches and protests are great but they are not the be all, end all. Concerts and events are fantastic ways of spreading the word to people outside your circle, but they are not the point of the movement. We need to push for our rights, not as some ethereal trend but as a tangible, concrete demand. It needs to be written, and it needs to be remembered.

We too easily get caught up in the Woodstock-esque charm of a campground, and veer off the path to change. Stay with it. Don’t take any victory, any freedom or any right for granted. If we don’t care enough to take back our country, why should it be given to us? “A republic madam, if you can keep it,” was Ben Franklin’s famous response to a woman asking what form of government the Constitutional Convention had decided upon.

Right now, we’re not keeping it. We’ve lost it. We’re fighting to get it back.

* * *

The Occupy movement didn’t fight. They weren’t that movement. Now maybe they will be. The tents may have left to make way for the real occupation; the occupation that will not sit down, not disappear from the political stages of this nation until we, the people, have gained our rightful place as the deciding force behind the government of the United States.

Eric Garcetti

Together with organizations such as Move to Amend, we will take our country back, our rights; with organization and the clear cut goal of amending the constitution to firmly place we, the people, as the sole beneficiaries of constitutional personhood rights. At the post-vote press conference on December 6th, Council President Eric Garcetti, who first introduced this amendment to LA City Council said, “Every struggle to amend the constitution began as just a group of regular Americans who wanted to end slavery, who thought women should vote, who believed that if you’re old enough to be drafted, you should be old enough to vote. These are how American amendments move forward from the grassroots when Americans say enough is enough. We’re very proud to come together and send a message but more than that, this becomes the official position of the City of Los Angeles, we will officially lobby for this. I also chair a group which oversees all the Democratic mayors and council members in the country and we’re going to share this with all our 3,000 members and we hope to see this start here in the west and sweep the nation until one day we do have a constitutional amendment which will return the power to the people.”

Yes. That is the hope. That is the inspiration. That is our duty as Americans. Occupy your place in this country. Occupy the story of your citizenship. This country was great because of the people who made it so. It falls because we allow it to. It can only be lifted by the people, we, the people.

Whatever your contribution will be, whatever seduces you to this movement, this is our time, this is our fight. This is now. This is us. We, the people. In liberty and justice we trust. Think. React. Do Something.

About the author:

Eleanor Goldfield is a singer, songwriter and political activist. She is the vocalist for Rooftop Revolutionaries, comprised of Brian Marshak/lead guitar; Karim Elghobasi/bass; Lamar Little/drums. An interview with Goldfield by Ragazine Politics Editor Jim Palombo appeared in the September-October issue of Ragazine (Vol. 7, No. 5). See/hear more at:

www.rooftoprevolutionaries.com, and http://rooftoprevolutionaries.blogspot.com/ .

Occupy Resources:

http://movetoamend.org

Recognize this?

The Postmodern Economic-Social Principals

of Why Everyone Is Such a F**king A**hole

By Scott “Galanty” Miller

 Myth #1: As a society, we’re closer than ever now because of the Internet and other forms of mass media. We’re all “connected”.

Define “closer”. Define “connected”. Millions of people are “connected” to Kim Kardashian. They follow her on Twitter. They watch her television programs. They wear her clothing line. They read about her personal life. But are they “close” to Kim Kardashian? No. They’re not. I watched Kim Kardashian’s wedding on TV. I didn’t see you there. You weren’t invited. You and Kim Kardashian aren’t close.

The Internet connects us in superficial ways, via the exchange of information. But yet the Internet pulls us farther apart emotionally. It separates us. Why? Because it’s big. It’s vast.

Have you ever had to relay sad news to someone? It’s difficult. It’s an emotional experience. But now let’s say you had to give sad news to fifty people today. It’s difficult the first time… and then the second time… and maybe the third time. But by the time you’ve reached the fiftieth person of the day? Your emotions and compassion and your ability-to-empathize have faded. And your feelings of “I have an emotional connection to this person” shift to “I have a craving for burritos. Is Taco Bell still open?” By the time you’ve reached the fiftieth person of the day, you’re just phoning it in. Hence, we have the expression “phoning it in”, which means, essentially, “lacking emotional interest in whatever activity in which you are engaged”. And the Internet is – figuratively and literally – a big cell phone.

Myth #2: As a society, we’re more compassionate than ever now because of the Internet and other forms of mass media.

A story came out about a dolphin that lost its fin in an accident. So engineers built a prosthetic fin. That’s compassion. A Disney movie was produced, based on this true event. And that’s nice. But this is an individual example of the human spirit, our species’ biological ability to feel and display compassion and kindness. This is not “society”. Society is much more powerful than ‘biology’. Society guides us. It teaches us.  Society is “The Cove”, a 2009 documentary film about the annual, inhumane dolphin slaughter inJapan. Biologically, human beings have the ability to understand – to “feel” – this cruelty. So then why are people such a**holes? Because we’re being guided by a corporate “Internet” society. And this technological economy has no compassion. It can’t. The economy doesn’t have the biological ability to “feel”. Our economic system doesn’t even have a biology.

Compassion requires an emotional connection. All human relationships require an emotional connection of some kind. Otherwise, the relationship is not of humanity. It’s just a “goal”. The direct and indirect interactions we have with other people within the massive global economic system are not relationships. They’re goals. If one purchases a picture frame from Amazon.com, there are several people involved: the customer who wants to buy the frame, the Amazon employee who puts wraps the frame and ships it, the subcontracted worker in some factory in a foreign country who makes the frame. These people are superficially connected, but they don’t really have a “relationship” with each other. Instead, they each have a  goal. One person’s goal is to buy the frame. Another person’s goal is to ship the frame. As it relates to achieving their goals, these people have no emotional connection to each other. They don’t know anything about each other. As it relates to achieving their goals, they don’t really think about one another’s existence. And you can’t show compassion towards someone if you don’t know they exist.

The Hallmark Company employs writers to come up with generic words of sympathy. And they’re nice words. But do these writers actually feel anything when they string together these words? Can you mass-market sympathy for people who may or may not even exist? (I suspect that while Hallmark sells many sympathy cards, many of those same cards never wind up getting bought or used.)

Now, of course, within our own private social media world, we are aware of the people to whom we’re technologically connected. But they’re not so much living, breathing human beings as they are pictures and words on a screen. And so the compassion we show is a façade. If one announces the death of his or her mother on Facebook, hundreds of Facebook “friends” – many of whom the person hasn’t seen in years, if ever – will respond with words of compassion. But can they actually feel compassion here? Perhaps. But how authentic can this sort of compassion possibly be? One of my Facebook friends was the victim of domestic abuse. She updated her status to announce, only minutes after the real event occurred, that her husband had been taken away in police custody. Dozens of her Facebook friends added “like” to her status. “Human compassion” now amounts to the 1.5 seconds required to press the “like” tab.

Myth #3: Corporations can operate with compassion and heart.

No. Corporations don’t have compassion. Corporations don’t know compassion. By definition, any human emotion interferes with the goal of the corporation. A corporation isn’t a human being. And now, a corporation isn’t even a building or a logo or a product. Corporate America – this landscape ruled by technological machinery – is a system whose only goal is to maximize profits.

Think of it this way. How does a calculator work? A calculator is designed to achieve its goals. Any sort of “human emotion” would interfere with this goal. If you input “2+2=” into a calculator, the machine is designed to achieve its goal, which is to find the mathematic answer to the equation. (The answer is “4”, by the way.) The calculator doesn’t think about why you’re inputting this unsolved equation. The calculator doesn’t have the ability – it isn’t designed with the ability – to “think” in this way. And even if it did have the ability to think in this way, it still wouldn’t take time to ponder the “why”. Because that would slow down the process… of achieving its goal. The calculator doesn’t make moral decisions about the equation. Perhaps you want to find the mathematical answer to “2+2=” in order to help you plan out a bank robbery, or a quadruple homicide. It doesn’t matter. The calculator doesn’t care. The calculator doesn’t make moral judgments. The calculator can’t have a “morality”.

Now, human beings have emotions. And human beings are using the calculator. They are operating the calculator. But this makes no difference to the system by which the calculator achieves its goals. Whether a person is nice or mean-spirited, compassionate or heartless, the calculator still operates in the same way. The way by which the calculator solves “2+2=” is the exact same. The speed by which the calculator solves “2+2=” is the exact same. A human being’s emotions are irrelevant to how the calculator functions.

When a driver cuts you off in traffic, he or she is generally not basing this action on emotion. Rather, you are simply in the way of the other driver’s goal – which is to reach their destination as quickly and conveniently as possible. Think of a calculator as that driver. The calculator is a selfish a**hole.

The economy guides society. This is inescapable. Even if you live in isolation, you’re still under the influence of the system by which K-Mart and Burger King and ‘Bed, Bad & Beyond’ operate. The economy guides human beings. And the economy is a giant, global-reaching calculator that controls us.

Group Size vs. The Postmodern Corporate System

Have you ever been the first guest to arrive at a party? (That happened to me once. And, as it turned out, I was also the only guest at the party. This was not a good party.) When you’re the first guest at a party, you converse with the host. And if the host is a good friend, this one-on-one conversation is sometimes very personal, emotional. Maybe your mother has been ill. The host will ask you about your mother. And you’ll spend a few minutes discussing how this illness has affected you personally.

Then a couple more people arrive to the party. If you don’t know them, you’ll introduce yourself. And so now this group of four people – you, the host, and these two new arrivals – is having one united conversation. (“2+2=4”) At this point, you will have stopped talking about your mother’s illness because it’s too “personal” to share within this bigger group, especially since you barely know some of the people in the group. As the group grows, you’re already losing personal, emotional connections.

This group of four people generally engages in conversation in the living room or the kitchen. At parties, guests tend to gravitate towards the kitchen.

Then three more people arrive at the party. Once again, even if you don’t know them, you’ll introduce yourself. And now there are seven people at the party. Yet, the party still consists of a single, united (though larger) group. And the group still engages in one united conversation. And the group still forms a pseudo-circle, with each individual knowingly taking a spot within the perimeter of the circle. And the group remains in the living room or in the kitchen.

After the ninth or tenth person arrives at the party, though, that big group starts to break down, figuratively and literally. The big, united conversation transforms into several different, separate conversations within the group… usually depending on the distance the guests are standing from each other. Partygoers become disconnected with the people in the group that are farther away. Guests begin having individual or smaller conversations with the one or two other people standing next to them. Also, guests start exiting from the original party circle; they leave the living room or kitchen and go to different rooms and areas, where they continue with their individual conversations.

There is a reason for this party dynamic. It’s not coincidental. Rather, it’s impossible to sustain a human connection with ten people at one time. It’s impossible to connect on any sort of real emotion level with ten people at once. Because not only are you talking to nine other people at once. But those other nine people are also talking to nine people at once. And this amounts to thousands of different interactions.

This party dynamic explains the corporate takeover of global society. This party dynamic explains Wal-Mart’s rise to power. And within this corporatization, human compassion has given way to emotionless goals.

Dyads and Triads 

A dyad is a social group between two members. A dyad is, by definition, the smallest possible social group of human beings; it’s the smallest possible “society”. Less than two people is just one person. One person by him or herself is not a society. Rather, it’s social isolation.

A dyad is, by definition, the most emotionally and personally intense and intimate social group that can exist. It’s the most emotional. It’s the most intimate. It’s the most personal social group. But a dyad is almost the most unstable social group. It’s the least stable.

A marriage is a dyad. A marriage consists of two people: a husband and a wife. (Or a ‘husband and a husband’ or a ‘wife and a wife’, depending on which state you live.) A marriage is very personal, emotional, intimate. The kinds of things that you do with your spouse behind closed doors is much more intimate and personal than the kinds of things you do with, say, your co-worker. But yet a marriage is also very unstable. Because if just one person leaves the marriage, the marriage will disintegrate. Hence, the divorce rate is so high. (See? All topics always come back to Kim Kardashian.)   

Two friends together make up a dyad. And two friends together are more intimate, more personal, they’ll share more secrets… than if a group of five friends are together. But a dyad is unstable. For example, if you’re meeting just one friend out to dinner, and that person cancels at the last minute, then there is no dinner. On the other hand, if you’re meeting five friends out for dinner, and one of those friends cancels at the last minute… then you’ll still go out with this group of four other people.

A triad is a social group consisting of three people. In other words, a triad is bigger than a dyad.

A triad is more stable than a dyad. But it’s not as emotionally intense. It’s not as personal.

If a married couple is meeting with a marriage counselor, this is a triad: a husband, a wife, and the marriage counselor. Of course, it’s not as personally intimate as a dyad. A married couple isn’t going to do the same things behind closed doors (or, for that matter, even argue with as much emotional passion) as they would in their counselor’s office.  But a triad is more stable. For example, if one of the spouses gets upset during the marital consultation, and he or she leaves the office, a group still exists: the other spouse and the counselor.

A family of three – a husband, a wife, and a child – make up a triad. The emotional atmosphere is not as intense as if the couple were alone. The couple is not going to do and say the same sort of things in front of their child as if they were alone. But this group of three is more stable. Because if the father walks out on his family, the family still exists: the mother and her child.

The point? As a social group grows bigger, it becomes more stable. But as a social group grows bigger, it becomes less personal. A triad is not as personal as a dyad, but it’s more stable. A group of ten people is not as personal as a triad, but it’s more stable. Thousands of people together are not as personal as a group of ten, but “thousands of people together” is more stable. A corporation is “thousands of people together”. Hence, the biological aspects of human compassion, emotions, are irrelevant within a corporation. Hence, a corporation isn’t really human at all.

This has been the basis for economic change over the past 30 years. Corporations – giant, unfeeling groups – have taken over the economic landscape, leaving smaller businesses irrelevant. Individually-owned, independently operated businesses, “Mom & Pop Stores”, were personal. Everyone working in the store knew each other by their first names. But those small stores and businesses weren’t stable. Wal-Mart isn’t personal. If you work at Wal-Mart, you don’t know the other two-million employees within the corporation. You’re not going to know their names. You can’t know all of their names. But Wal-Mart survives for this very reason; Wal-Mart is big and stable and it is guided, not by individual emotion, but by its system, it’s goal.

Take, for example, a small, individually-owned business: “Joe’s Diner”. The purpose of “Joe’s Diner” is not to grow larger. Rather, Joe, the owner, operates the business with the goal of maintaining a steady, consistent profit margin and keeping the diner afloat. Plus, Joe, a human being, probably has other goals irrelevant of profit. For example, perhaps Joe wants to cook and prepare the food in the way he thinks best. Or maybe he enjoys maintaining the aesthetics of the diner’s interior; he hangs up photographs and wall art that have special meaning to him. And maybe Joe works to keep his business alive because it has a history in the community; all the folks in town have fond memories of eating at Joe’s place, and this is important to Joe. This is human emotion. But today, as a necessity to how corporations fulfill their singular goal – to be as profitable as possible, as efficiently as possible – these goal must take precedence over any real emotional, human connection.

Corporations are becoming more and more automated and impersonal. And as the economy guides society, human lives become more impersonal. The economy – this aspect of society – is, in the bigger picture, changing who we are.

The world of “Joe’s Diners” is fading. McDonald’s and Wendy’s and Pizza Hut have taken over. Take, for example, McDonald’s. McDonald’s is, by definition, a robotic system in which corporate stability comes ahead of people. McDonald’s, in order to maintain itself as a profit-making system, must keep corporate stability ahead of the individual needs and emotional of people… because people are always leaving McDonald’s. Low-level employees are constantly leaving McDonald’s. Middle-managers are constantly leaving McDonald’s. Not even the McDonald’s CEO remains the same. But yet… McDonald’s remains stable.

Conduct a five-year social study. Today, go to a nearby McDonald’s. The restaurant will have a certain “look” about it. The system used within the restaurant, like how you order your food, will be very specific. The food will have a certain taste. Five years from now, go to that same McDonald’s. The staff will be different. In five years, many, if not most, of the employees working there now will be gone. But, yet, five years from now, the restaurant will have the same generic “look”. The system used within that McDonald’s will be the same. The food will still taste the same.

“Joe’s Diner” has a certain look. But if Joe retires and someone takes over the restaurant, it will start to look different. The new owner will add his or her own personal, human touch to the diner. The new owner’s human emotions will play a factor in how the diner operates and changes. (And if the diner, now under new management, doesn’t change, it is will mostly likely be in honor of Joe. But, still, the human element plays a part.) If Joe dies, and someone else takes over the restaurant from him, the food will start to taste different. The new owners, the new cooks, will add their own personal food-preparation touches.

At McDonald’s, all of this is irrelevant. If McDonald’s introduces a new CEO tomorrow, then McDonald’s hamburgers will still taste the same tomorrow. And all corporations – all the goods and services that we use – operate in this way. Corporate stability takes precedence over humanity.

This is not to say that corporations don’t engage in charitable endeavors. But even this charity lacks any sort of human element. Corporations donate money, for example, based on how the donation functions within the corporation’s system of purpose. In other words, corporations aren’t created for the purposes of making donations to charitable foundations.

Here’s another way of putting it…

Corporations don’t give money to charity based on any sort of human element within the corporation. Pizza Hut donates a certain amount of money each year. The Pizza Hut CEO is irrelevant of this aspect of the corporate system. If Pizza Hut introduces a new CEO this year, the charitable aspect of the restaurant chain won’t really change. Pizza Hut will still give essentially the same monetary amounts to essentially the same charities as it did the year before. The new CEO’s emotions, his or her own interests and creativity, doesn’t play a factor. So when Pizza Hut donates to charity, it is reminiscent of people pressing the “like” tab after my Facebook friend’s abusive husband was arrested. It’s fake compassion. There is no real human element to it.

This “like tab” culture is socializing and affecting us – all of us. Regardless of whether you eat at McDonald’s, we’re still unable to escape the corporate element that it represents. We see it. We’re surrounded by it. We’re engulfed within it. And we’re becoming a robotic people numb to new ideas and afraid of change and without any creativity. We’re changing as we’re being guided by this alienating economic system.

“Everyone is a F**king A**hole Now” vs. The Corporate System

Ask anyone if they ever worked in a small, individually-owned store or restaurant or business. If they did, ask them if they knew the name of their boss – not their manager, but their boss, the person who owned the business. Ask them if their boss knew their name.  In all likelihood, the answer to these questions will be “yes”.

Now ask anyone if they ever worked in a big-chain, corporate business, like KFC or Target or Bank of America. If they did, ask them if they knew the name of their boss – not their manager, but their boss, the CEO of the corporation. More times than not, the answer will be “no”. Then ask them if their boss knew their name. The answer will almost always be “no”.

Let’s say you have a job, you work for a business, and you get sick for a month. If you and your boss know each other, if you and your boss know each other’s name, then of course your boss will be more understanding of your situation. That’s humanity. We feel compassion for those to whom we are emotionally connected.  Now, if you get sick and your boss has no idea who you are, and he or she doesn’t know your name, and he or she never even sees you… then he won’t care and he’ll have no problem replacing you. That’s human nature. We don’t care about what we don’t know exists.

Of course, giant corporations generally have some sort of employee health plan. But this health plan works within the structure of the system. It’s a necessary aspect of the goal of the corporation. There is no individual human emotion to any corporate health plan. There is no corporation inAmericatoday whose health plan includes a personal visit from the CEO, just to “see how you’re doing”.

If you’re close to someone – if you’re in a dyad relationship – the person means something to you emotionally. If you’re not close to someone – if you’re living within the system of a corporation, surrounded by millions of coworkers – then the person doesn’t mean anything to you emotionally. This is the nature of human beings and all living creatures.

In order to fulfill this goal, corporations must continue to grow. Corporations must continue to get bigger and to grow more powerful and to multiply their profit margins. The corporation is, by definition, a system of economic growth. The human beings that occupy the corporation are irrelevant. The individuals within the corporation come and go. But the system remains. Only a human being can say, “Our profits are growing at the expense of the environment, so let’s change the system and slow things down.” Only a person can say, “Our Corporation’s goal is causing the social ennui of this community, so we should change our goals.” Without the human element, the system remains.

That corporations have become global enterprises is simply an inevitable product of the corporation’s growth. And every corporation is global now. Every corporation is part of the international community now, if only indirectly. Perhaps there are no Wal-Marts, yet, in third-world nations around the world. But Wal-Mart’s influence is still felt world-wide. Most of the products sold at Wal-Mart are not domestic. Wal-Mart merchandise is made throughout the world, sometimes under hazardous conditions, by people none of us will ever know or see. Do you know the name of the person who made the oven mitt you bought at Wal-Mart? And make no mistake about it – these people do work for Wal-Mart. The foreigners making this merchandise are basically indirect Wal-Mart employees. And these employees are not working under any kind health plan from Wal-Mart. That’s because to offer healthcare coverage to workers, when it’s not legally or socially required, when it doesn’t harm the public relations of the corporation, contradicts the profit-making system set into place. (It’s not entirely impossible that the CEO of Wal-Mart would visit one of the company’s stores in a different state and meet with some of the lower-level employees. But I’d bet Kim Kardashian’s fortune that no CEO of any major American superstore has traveled oversees to visit the workers in the subcontracted factories who are making the stuff that his American stores sell for profit.)

Now let’s say one of these foreign Wal-Mart employees accidentally cuts off his or her hand while operating an unsafe factory machine. Of course, the worker has no healthcare coverage. Do you care? Well, in theory, of course, decent human beings are saddened by suffering. So then why don’t you care? Because you don’t know that this worker exists. You don’t know them. You don’t see them. There is no personal touch, no human element, to the products that they make – that we use. These people don’t have names. And, regardless of how compassionate a person you may be, we still can’t have compassion for what we don’t understand exists. That’s human nature.

* * *

“Why is everyone such a prick?” is not a rhetorical question. There is an answer. Human beings are social creatures. We’re not “biological” creatures. This means that we’re dependent on society, on our social surroundings. And society is teaching us to be unfeeling and uncaring. Society, which is now a vast global corporate system that is virtually impossible to escape, engulfs us. The Wal-Mart worker who cut off his hand and has no healthcare coverage? That happened. This person exists. That suffering is real. And we’re all surrounded by this reality. When you’re surrounded by kindness and compassion, you’ll be kind & compassionate. When you’re surrounded by suffering, it affects you, It affects all of us – subtly, subconsciously, indirectly. You don’t have to know a person’s name, you don’t have to know that suffering is happening, to be affected by that nameless human being’s suffering.

In other words…

If we have no personal connection to people, then we’re not going to care if something bad happens to them. But if bad things are happening to people, and nobody cares, then the world becomes a lesser place. And when we live in a lesser place, we become lesser people. We become, for lack of a better term, a**holes.

The other day, I read an article about high school Internet bullying. We keep hearing about children committing suicide due to the harassment they endure on-line. It’s not that on-line bullying is worse than physical, in-person bullying. It’s that it’s less emotionally-connected.

If a child is bullying a classmate in person, on the playground, in the parking lot, and then the victim takes out a gun and he or she puts it in his mouth, well… I suspect that at that point, most bullies would stop what they were doing, at least at that moment. (It doesn’t matter if the bully feels compassion or not. Rather, the bully is going to stop because they can see the severity of the situation. They don’t want to get into trouble.) But if a teenager is bullying a classmate on-line, on Facebook, and the victim has a gun in his or her mouth… well, the bully doesn’t know that the victim is about to commit suicide. The bully has no emotional connection to his or her victim. So the bully isn’t going to stop the harassment.

Technology and the corporate growth have brought us all together globally. Indirectly, we’re all interacting with each other. But if you don’t know the people with whom you’re interacting, if you have no emotional connection to them, then you’re more likely to take advantage of them. In other words, drivers don’t cut their friends off in traffic. Those a**hole drivers? They cut off strangers, people with whom they have no emotional connection. Indirectly, on a global scale, we’re interacting with people with whom we have no emotional connection, with people we don’t care about.

Now, you might not like your friends. Maybe you can’t stand them. But you’re not going to cut them off in traffic… and you’re not going to leave them dying in the streets. But if a foreign worker loses their hand in a factory accident, or if something bad happens to someone you don’t know… well, we don’t have time to worry about that. We don’t have time to think about that… because we’re too busy watching “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”. But of course this is affecting us – subtly, subconsciously, indirectly, gradually, and negatively – because we’re all part of the same society now. And this society is teaching us to live without compassion. And it’s turning us into such f**king a**holes!

Actually, because of technology, Americans aren’t even emotionally connected to each other through the media anymore. In the past, when a popular television program was on, folks would gather around their TV sets at the same time to watch it. This “shared” time helped to unite the country. Now everyone is watching that TV show at different times: on DVR, on Hulu, on DVD, etc. Hence, we’re losing that unifying connection.

It’s rarely noticed that Facebook users post comments, and then respond and react to each other’s comments, at different times. Or, here’s another way of looking at it. Think of the last time you had a deep, emotionally intense, personally intimate conversation with another person. What if that interaction was broken up into different time periods? For example, you said something. Then you went out to the store for an hour. Then you came back and the other person responded to your initial comment. Then that person met another friend for lunch. Then the person came back, and then you replied to their response, etc. The conversation loses its emotional intensity; it loses that “human connection”.

About the author:

Scott “Galanty” Miller teaches sociology at the State University of New York at Cortland. He is also a contributing writer for the award-winning Onion News Network. His website is at www.scottgalantymiller.com.  You can follow him on Twitter at @galantymiller

Greybeard

by Kimberly Dark

“People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric.  And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house.”

______________________

He was the best neighbor I’ve ever had.  He passed away last year and I still miss his sunrise wave as he rode past on a rusty old bicycle.

Our conversations were minimal, though sometimes he’d visit, sit on my lanai for a little while and chat.  He never came to my yearly solstice party, though I’d always invite him.

“Will you come?” I’d say.

“No,” he’d mutter “but thanks.”

He was the first of my neighbors to tell me about the area when I moved to the Southeast side of Hawaii Island. And he didn’t refer to my house as “Samantha’s house” as nearly everyone in the neighborhood did for years longer than she’d actually lived there.  “This place wasn’t for her.” Greybeard said.  “So, she left.”  Simple as that. He was glad I was in that house – it didn’t always have the nicest folks living there.  I was glad too – happy to give the house a good home, so to speak.

Greybeard and I sometimes chatted over a good sunset too.  And we said hello at sunrise – me on my lanai in pajamas, he riding slowly past on his bicycle.  He offered a wave, or a “good to see you” if I’d just returned home from a work trip. During sunset, we sometimes had whole conversations.  Sometimes we just stood quietly and looked at the sky.  Often, the light called me out of the house and I’d find him, sitting on his bike in the middle of our block, appreciating the beauty of it all Sure, people all over the world perch themselves before impressive vistas in order to watch the colors of the sunset, but where I live, it’s not just about watching the colors.  There’s something about the light.  The sky may or may not turn impressive shades of pink and lavender and gold.  That’s pretty – but not the main event.  It’s the light itself that filters through the low-hanging clouds giving everything, not just the sky, a golden glow.

One time, I was sitting at the computer working when the light changed and suddenly, nothing seemed more important than walking outside to be rendered golden.  And indeed, I met up with four other neighbors out there, each of us just standing in the road in front of our houses.  This is not an intentional gathering and no polite neighbor-banter is required.  When it happens to you, it’s personal: it’s just between you and the light.

Because we live on the east side of the island, kind of southeast, the sun doesn’t set over the sea.  If I were looking at the sea, the sunset would be happening just over my right shoulder.  On the island, everything is oriented in one of two directions, either makai – toward the sea, or mauka – toward the mountain.  This directionality always works, in a basic way.  At my house, the sunset is mauka, though the golden glow can encompass everything.

The view mauka from my house is of a forested hillside.  It’s an Ohia forest near the bottom and thicker rainforest further up.  The Ohia and kupu kupu grow sparsely because we live on a lava flow.  One road is visible down the side of the mountain and into our subdivision. It’s not paved, but is clearly marked by the electrical poles that give it purpose.  This utility road isn’t for public use.  A yellow gate at the top of our subdivision marks the intention that no one uses the road without permission.  In true Puna style, however, the fence was placed strangely, just to the right of the road itself, so that effectively, it blocks nothing.

I stood staring in the direction of the sunset, everything, including me, bathed in a golden light that doesn’t seem to emanate from the sun. It is ubiquitous. The light, and the strange purple-gold color of the clouds, often resemble a Maxfield Parrish painting – one where a griffin or Pegasus is just about to step out onto a cloud, wearing a watch on a gold chain, it’s orange beak poised to speak.

Greybeard rolled slowly toward me, as I walked toward the corner for a better view.  He coasted on his bicycle – one almost never saw Greybeard walking – clad in a t-shirt and some shorts which pulled up around his legs, looked more like a diaper.  When it was hot, he wore his long grey hair in a topknot on his head and his long grey beard in a knot, accentuating the Sadhu-look.  He was mumbling as he approached. “Hrm, prhm, electrical, hrm, hrm, beautiful, prhm, hrm.”   He often mumbled quietly as he rode past, or he’d say, “Hare Krishna.”

“Hi Greybeard.” I said “The light called me outside. Beautiful sunset tonight.” I added.

He nodded a vigorous agreement and re-articulated what I believe he had just mumbled. “It’d be a lot more beautiful is someone hadn’t put all of these electrical lines in my view!”

“Hmm, yes,” I sympathized. “I know you’re not a fan of the electricity.”

It’s unusual for someone not to be a fan of electricity, but I live in an unusual neighborhood.  Greybeard lived in the area a while – I’m not sure how long, but long enough to have known every inhabitant of my house.  He was definitely there before electricity came in the late 1990s.  He and a handful of other neighbors were not pleased by the prospect of electricity coming to the Seaview community.  They protested the arrival of the Hawaii Electric Light Company and they lost.  To hear some tell it, the protest was not so peaceful.  Electrical poles, installed one day, would be sawed down by the time the workers arrived the following day.  Of course, some residents still don’t have electricity – no lines ran to Greybeard’s property, that’s for sure.  Some people operate their homes on solar or wind power, or they simply don’t use things that light-up, heat-up or get cold.

Greybeard’s home was pretty minimal anyway. I never visited his place, past the driveway, but my son was there.  He stopped by one day to deliver a can of WD40 that Greybeard requested after fixing Caleb’s bicycle.  When I asked if I could pay him, Greybeard responded with a brusque shake of his head, “No.”  And then he added “But if you can pick me up a can of WD40, that’d be great.”  I tend to forget, until reminded, that money isn’t actually worth anything. It’s what you can get with the money that’s worthwhile.  And if a person doesn’t drive, as Greybeard doesn’t, simply asking for what you need might be the better option.

“He’s got it hooked up.” Caleb nodded after returning from delivering the WD40. “Pretty comfortable and the bed’s kind of hidden.” He commented on Greybeard’s partially open-air living arrangement. His lot was nicely landscaped and his home wasn’t too visible from the street.  Only the tidiness called attention to the lot not being vacant.  I heard Greybeard call out one night to a car with its headlights fixed on his lot.  “Turn off that light!  You don’t see me shining lights into your house, do you?!”

Greybeard was a good neighbor –  the best I’ve ever had.  He was the kind of guy you want in a community – regardless of his mono-moniker and mumbling.  Or perhaps because of it. Diligent, concerned difference is a gift.  He offered a free bicycle tune-up clinic at the Saturday farmer’s market down the street, and he served on our community association board.  I feel certain he heard me and my music and conversations far more often than I heard from him.  He helped maintain our community park and the free book and clothing exchange too.  He recycled and didn’t use what he didn’t need.

And he enjoyed a nice sunset – even with the presence of electrical lines. The changes in the light are so subtle – you can’t really see them. But with a little time, standing still, just looking around, things change.  It gets darker and the miracle subsides. That’s how a neighborhood changes, too.  Little by little.  People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric.  And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house.  I have redoubled my commitment to diligent difference since Greybeard’s passing. I hope to contribute even a fraction of what he did to our community.

I’m glad Greybeard died peacefully in his sleep in a home he loved.  And I’m glad he was my neighbor, and that I knew him.  I cherish every sunset where we stood silently watching, taking in the changes.  There’s so much beauty in the quiet moments.  We stood transfixed until the light released us back to our mortal tasks.

 About the Author:

Kimberly Dark is a writer, mother, performer and professor. She is the author of five award-winning solo performance scripts and her poetry and prose appear in a number of publications. For more than ten years, Kimberly has inspired audiences in fancy theatres, esteemed universities and fabulous festivals She tours widely in North America and Europe anywhere an audience loves a well-told story.  The Evening Echo in Cork, Ireland says “the balance between objectivity and intimate analysis certainly gives Dark an edge and has made her a force to be reckoned with on every level.” The Salt Lake Tribune says “Dark doesn’t shy away from provocative, incendiary statements, but don’t expect a rant. Her shows, leavened with humor, are more likely to explore how small everyday moments can inform the arc of our lives.” The High Plains Reader in Fargo, ND, says, “Dark’s skill as a storyteller gets to your heart by exposing hers.”

©Zaira Sheikh

Green fields and pastures on the way to Abbottabad.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Naran: To Forget Or Not To Forget

By Zaira R. Sheikh

Off To Naran

We took a long day’s drive from Islamabad to Naran. This valley is in Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, which was formerly known as Northwest Frontier Province (N.W.F.P). Naran is one of Pakistan’s best tourist attractions. It has such amazing scenic beauty that I suggest you witness it with your own eyes. If you do, you’re bound to encounter Kunhar River wherever you go, because it runs all along the valley. I recommend visiting anytime between June and September. When winter arrives, all paths are covered with snow and communications are near impossible.

Huts and guest houses on the mountains in Naran Valley.

We saw some interesting places on our road trip from Islamabad to Naran. The farms, green pastures and animals only add to the picturesque landscape. I couldn’t stop clicking the shutter.

Leaving Islamabad to enter Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, we passed by Hasan Abdal: a small town in northern Punjab named after a saint. Hasan Abdal holds a lot of significance for Sikhs. Around 1520, the founder of Sikh religion Guru Nanak resided there. This is why Gurdwara Sri Panja (one of the most sacred Sikh sites) was built in Hasan Abdal. It’s visited by Sikhs from all over the world.

Like I mentioned earlier the routes in Islamabad and in the northern areas are quite well developed and it absolutely fascinates me how the workers are seen building the paths for a larger part of the year. Unlike many other countries of the world, in Pakistan such labor is quite cheap despite the dangers associated with the kind of work these poor people do.

View of a hut in Naran.

We also passed by Abbotabad District. Does the name Abbotabad ring a bell? It’s the infamous place where Osama Bin Laden was discovered and then killed with the world knowing little more of what happened. I find the entire Bin Laden murder episode quite strange and unbelievable. A man with such a terrifying persona, as portrayed by the western world, hiding in a compound right under the nose of Pakistani military headquarters for so long and yet no body in Pakistan knew. Next, you hear is that the US forces entered a foreign territory as if a grand party was going on there and Mr. Obama announced they have killed Osama on TV (the way Obama announced, it seemed as if he himself killed the man). And then the cherry on the top was the rather quick sea burial of Osama. All of this just looks like a fairy tale to me at least.

No, we never visited the sacred compound where Osama Bin Laden was killed. In fact, just for information purposes that area is sealed and is not really a tourist spot as yet. Anyway, coming back to Abbotabad, it is also the transit point to all major tourist regions in north Pakistan such as Naran, Shogran, Nathiagali and other awesome destinations.

We crossed the small town of Balakot, known as the gateway to the beautiful Kaghan Valley. Balakot was completely destroyed by an earthquake in October 2005 during Pervez Musharraf’s era. Although the town has redeveloped, none of the new constructions have cement roofs as per government order.

I recalled the devastation caused by the quake and the sadness that overshadowed the nation. It was a strange sight to see the nation becoming so united to help the earth quake victims. My question only remains, why do we have to wait for some catastrophe to take place to unite as nation.

As blunt as it may sound, Pakistanis should get used to natural calamities by now. A rare earthquake in 2005 is followed by heavy floods every year now. Most of these disasters are man-made (deforestation, industrialization etc) and no precautionary measures are ever taken. Pakistani authorities don’t consider planning way ahead of time. And once the disaster has hit the country, all the so called saints wake up and start asking for donations and charities to help the poor. The mis-management and lack of interest on all levels is only leading to more devastation in the country. The common people and poor in general are the ones who suffer.

If one would just look back and see how the locals themselves contributed to the deforestation in the northern areas, it speaks volumes of ignorant behavior as these basic acts are the root cause of natural calamities.

Arriving in Naran by 5 PM, we were still looking for a hotel by late night. The one we’d booked was sickeningly dirty. No hygienic person would stay there. We drove through a market flooded with motels, hotels and inns. They all sucked in all honesty. The locals seemed greedy and knew nothing about courtesy. Since it was peak tourism time, they doubled the rates without negotiation, no matter how shitty their accommodation. Furthermore, it’s not difficult or expensive to get to Naran, so it was choked with crowds especially on weekends. Thus, our first Naran impressions were simply BAD!

There are decent hotels, but they’re expensive, and one must book rooms a month in advance to be safe. However, we were in the middle of shit with no turning back. We had to find a room somewhere before our bladders exploded. We found The Trout Land Hotel. It was big with a nice view. Yet, their loo was gross to the core. They didn’t believe in changing bed sheets or pillow covers. Plus, how could I forget this one key detail: the toilet flusher was perpetually out of order. I don’t know how we spent two days there, but we did. There was no other choice.

A beautiful view of the clouds and mountains from Lalazar, top, and tourists trekking.

Incredible Lalazar

The next day, we took a 4×4 safari jeep with an expert local driver. That’s the best way to travel the bumpy regional mountains and see the major attractions. Our chauffeur was a young boy who knew the routes well. He had excellent control and was one of the finest drivers I’ve come across in my life.

Our first stop was a hill station called Lalazar, 20 kilometers from Naran at 10,200 feet above sea level. It’s breathtaking with flowers, green steppes and mountains everywhere. The best thing about Lalazar is that it’s still unknown to most tourists and is therefore quite clean. Trekking is an absolute must here. Photographers will especially love this divine work of nature.

River Rafting In Kunhar River

Rafting in Kunhar River is yet another adventure to try your hands at. Foreigners usually opt for the roughest sections, while most Pakistanis prefer smoother stretches of water. We chose a mid tier section for rafting and the charge was Rs. 500 per person. We were lucky to meet an expert guide who made us feel extremely comfortable and told us about the area in detail through his travel stories. I loved every bit of our river rafting experience. One more thing you should go for in the area is a manual trolley ride over Kunhar River. If you’re scared of heights, choose one at lower altitude. The ride costs only Rs. 25 (which is peanuts), and this is serious Pakistan fun.

Views of Lake Saif-ul-Muluk.

Breathtaking Saif-ul-Muluk Lake

Probably the most famous Pakistani tourist attraction is Saif-ul-Malook lake, 10,500 feet above sea level. The sad part is that visitors in general are trashing the place. There are garbage cans everywhere. Yet, people don’t use them. They throw empty wrappers and bottles into the lake, which is ignorant and absurd. However, observing both the literate/illiterate and the rich/poor in Pakistan it is not so difficult to realize that Pakistanis are a lost nation in more than one ways. More sadly, they don’t even know that something is wrong somewhere.

Apart from the weird crowd, I saw a lot of animal abuse going there. Ponies carry heavy tourists on their backs and as I looked at them closely the poor animals looked so sad. They were suffering for sure and yes since we have no animal right laws here in Pakistan, not much can be done about such animals. One more disappointment was the fact that the locals have polluted the natural beauty of the lake by having unimpressive wooden boat rides just to make some money, which is dangerous, stupid and ugly.

Lake Saif-ul-Muluk

For now, the glacier adds enough clean water from above to flush the filth out naturally. However, unless measures are taken, crowds will succeed in polluting this wonder within a few years. In addition, men at the site surreptitiously make videos and snap pictures of women, which is a total turn-off for me.

So, this is how I spent two very hectic but exciting days in Naran. My take on Naran is simple. It has some amazing tourist attractions (but it is a bit over rated since I’ve seen similar places that were far too peaceful and relaxing with brilliant accommodation) – Lalazar was my personal favorite but the people are as greedy and selfish as the size of Godzilla. Pollution is part of the aura and deforestation is obvious, which is a dangerous sign. Having said all that, I still recommend all foreigners to take out some time and visit these places. Every year, people from all over the world come down to these amazing places. The smart way to go about it is to plan things well before time to avoid any glitches once you’re there.

Zaira R. Sheikh is the author of “Pakistani Media: The Way Things Are”, available through Amazon.com, and “If Mortals Had Been Immortals & Other Short Stories.” Sheikh is a writer, blogger, human & animal rights activist based in Karachi, Pakistan.

Mark Levy and "Sam"

Civilization is Relative

Reflections on Life in the Slow Lane

During my recent trip to Ecuador, I had occasion to meet a gentlemen who lives in the Amazon. He is a Huaorani (Hwă răh’ni), a people who have lived in their neighborhood for thousands of years, going back to the Stone Age. It is estimated that about 3,000 Huaorani exist. This new acquaintance of mine ─ call him Sam ─ stands about 4’9” high and has dark, but not leathery skin. He has black hair and not a touch of grey, probably because he lives a stress-free life. All he has to do is spear tasty looking animals and occasional enemies, and supervise his wife, who does everything else for the family. I was going to say household, but there is no house. No clothing, either.

Sam looks 50 years old, but I could be off by 20 years one way or the other. He seems pretty healthy, considering he has no access to a health care plan. His chest has fully developed muscles that make Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Woody Allen. He also has a hole in his earlobe big enough to slide an iPhone through.

I met Sam at a rather rustic resort near a town called Mindo, Ecuador, a couple of hours from Quito. I felt sorry for myself having to drive so far to get there until I learned that Sam had traveled by foot and canoe for three days from his home in the Amazon. Now, Sam didn’t mention this fact to me directly, because he speaks only the Huaorani language, so his Spanish-speaking son did the translating.

Let me tell you about this rustic resort. A raging river borders the property, so to get across from the dirt road out of the town of Mindo, you have to ride precariously on this flat, wooden, one-person seat suspended by a rope and pulley. The seat has no sides to protect you from the raging river and its formidable boulders.

Once across the river and onto the property, I locate a common, open-aired-dining area ─ really just an unenclosed, platform and I find my wooden cabin ─ quite spacious, actually ─ with a grass thatched roof surrounded by a swarm of moths the size of pterodactyls. It could be a scene from Jurassic Park. No electricity, but there are two candles and, believe it or not, a flush toilet. That’s where technology ends.

I thought that was pretty rustic, especially for a place that calls itself a resort. But then I realized that the same location that represents a giant step backwards, civilization-wise for me, is actually a great improvement for Sam, who was quite accustomed to living without a roof over his unkempt head. He doesn’t have a satellite TV, either ─ not even basic cable ─ or a heater or an air conditioner or a refrigerator or a dish washer or even, let’s face it, a roll of toilet paper.

How can he enjoy a Barry Manilow Christmas collection on CD while munching on microwave popcorn if he doesn’t have a CD player or a microwave oven in the first place? The poor fellow doesn’t have a toothbrush or a pair of Diodoro sneakers. He has survived, day after day for maybe 18,000 days, without a cell phone and without a full-length bathroom mirror. We take so many things for granted he doesn’t even know exist.

I continued to feel sorry for Sam all the way up to the day I returned to civilization to discover my mortgage, my satellite TV bill, and two credit card payments were overdue. My electricity had been shut off, too, for the same reason.

Yes, civilization can be a relative thing. You have to feel sorry for people who don’t know what they’re missing.

About the author:

Mark Levy is a contributor editor of Ragazine.  He is an attorney with the Binghamton law firm of Hinman, Howard and Kattell.

The Truth About Love

Kyon natters softly.  His mouthful of little songs wakes Cho because it’s the sound of her son.  She opens her eyes and gazes into his copper-coin face, her devotion the precise size and density of a four-year old boy.  Uncurling from around Kyon, Cho flounders out from between lightly starched sheets – up and getting ready.  Cho brushes the black wave of her hair and then slips into a cream colored camisole and nylons her skinny legs.  A simple blue dress with long sleeves unifies her style into one appeal. 

Finding matching socks for Kyon has eaten up years of Cho’s life.  Every morning her hands become frenzied shovels scattering socks and misplaced toys in the dresser drawers until she finds a pair of matching socks and shoes.  Then it’s, “Make the ears.  Crisscross.  Into the bunny hole.  Pull them tight.” until finally, Kyon is socked and shoed and ready for daycare.   

She collects her bags and then out through her brownstone door steps into the winter street.  The sleet stopped in the small of the night but the morning is still shockingly cold.  Cho’s scarf frames her quiet face, her wool coat an ocean in which both she and Kyon swim.  They wait on the corner to hail a cab, every freezing minute stretching into the space of two.

The City is in Cho’s ears and the morning is all bang, bang, boom. Her impractical shoes make the shuttling of Kyon from taxi to the Tiny Years Daycare Center a teetering task.  Kyon prattles all the while, his voice audible but not his words.  Cho hands Kyon to an old woman with large ears, black eyes, and a “Hello.  My name is…” sticker, but there’s no name written on the tag so it’s just “Hello.  My name is… nothing.”  Nevertheless, Cho trusts the nameless old woman to keep Kyon from a thousand accidents. 

Cho jumps back into the taxi, her hair splashed across the back of the seat.  She reaches for her scarf, bracelets sliding down her arm, and realizes it’s no longer there.  How many scarves has she lost conveying Kyon from taxi to daycare, how many gloves, how many umbrellas, how many earrings?  Really, I must be more careful, she thinks.  But this is the last thought of Kyon she permits herself for the remains of the workday, rather, she concentrates on transforming herself into the dragon-lady of corporate advertising: frigid, bitchy and ready, if necessary, to use a Samurai sword to get her way.  It’s not a role of Cho’s choosing, but it is a stereotype her boss expects her to fulfill.  It is, after all, why he hired her – he likes Lucy Liu.

Stilettos punctuate Cho’s every move on the thirty-ninth floor of The Rockefeller Center with a fashionable snick.  She fires the man with horse teeth.  Snick.  She lands a multimillion dollar account.  Snick.  She moves the deadline up three days.  Snick.  She abruptly answers her own phone because she fired her horse-tooth assistant.  Snick. 

“Cho Nahm speaking.” 

“Ms. Nahm?”

“Yes?”

“This is Mi-sook at the Tiny Years Daycare Center.  I’m sorry.  Kyon is crying.”

“I don’t understand.”  Snick.

“Kyon won’t stop crying.”

“You called me because my son is crying?” Snick!  Snick!

“I’m sorry, Ms. Nahm.  Kyon has been crying for three hours.  I’m sorry.  I can’t make him happy.  So sorry.”

“Are you asking me to come and pick him up?”

“Yes ma’am.  I’m so sorry.”

Click.  Snick.

Cho leaves the office in a flurry of snicks.  And for nine blocks in the back of a yellow taxi, she is two schools of thought – corporate executive versus devoted mother.  The corporate executive orders the cabbie to stop, the devoted mother asks the driver to keep the meter running while she gets her son.  Cho enters the daycare center and the sound is suddenly overwhelming, like Grand Central Station, but diminutive.  And there, there in the middle of it all is Kyon crying.  He looks like an exhausted swimmer, red and drenched.  Kyon’s relief gathers itself in his expression as soon as he sees Cho, who swoops down to hover like a hen nestling her egg.  Together they become the still in the center of the room.  Cho gathers the familiar shape of Kyon to herself, pressing kisses into the bend of his neck.  She slowly pivots on her pointed heel to face Mi-sook who bows, hair draping.  Then Mi-sook tilts her head upward and unexpectedly the bright look of discovery makes a sunrise of her face.

“His shoes are on the wrong feet.”

Cho looks at her blankly.  Mi-sook doesn’t have the confidence to repeat herself, so she gingerly approaches Kyon’s feet, every mannerism a bowing apology.  Quick, quick she unties one shoe, then the other.  She juggles them to opposite hands and then quick, quick she ties one shoe, then the other.  She looks up for approval.  When Cho utters, “Thank you,” it also means “I hate you.”  And, “Write your name on the nametag, stupid bitch.”  

Leaning against the cold cab window on the way home, Cho watches narrow alleys and the lights on in every apartment pass.  She hides from the driver’s rearview eyes behind a curtain of hair and listens to Kyon breathing as a child will do just before falling asleep, deeply.  The cab slows, stops, and then idles in front of Cho’s brownstone.  The porcelain sky shatters just then and sleet clatters on the sheets of sidewalk ice and car glass.  Cho collects her bags, her son, and dashes to the door, splattering slush up the back of her legs. 

Cho’s coat on a chair, shoes slipped off, heavy wet nylons piled on the first step to upstairs.  Kyon’s quilted coat drenched, little hat hung, and yawning.  And then Cho notices a vacancy on her wrist – her bracelets missing.  She rushes outside in her bare feet hoping to find the bracelets between the front door and where the taxi was parked.  She tips on her toes searching in the pelting sleet, but the bracelets are not to be found.  Cho returns to the house and sits silent, rubbing warmth back into her feet.  She contemplates the significance of the missing bracelets, inventing meaning when it doesn’t become evident.  Cho begins to feel that Kyon has ruined her life.  His neediness, his mismatched socks, his culpability in her disappearing accessories.  The sharp-edged toys on the kitchen floor, the sleeplessness, the forever sticky face and fingers – all of it making her forget who she is and what she ever wanted. 

Cho’s eyes become a mystery to Kyon.  Sensing an atmospheric change, he hoards himself – mouth closed in fear, chin trembling.  In a quiet yet quick explosion of movement, Cho collects Kyon’s wet shoes and moves to him kneeling.  Without words, she positions him on the floor, his soles directed at her.  And then, like so many times before, she purposefully jams Kyon’s shoes on the wrong feet.  She yanks the laces tight while Kyon mouths the words, “Make the ears.  Crisscross.  Into the bunny hole.  Pull them tight.” 

The truth about love is that it isn’t always good.  And the particular places from which Cho’s fury erupt, makes her immune to Kyon’s painful pleading.  All Kyon understands is that his feet hurt and somehow, it’s his fault.

About the author:

Eric Bennett lives in New Jersey with his wife and four children. He loves trees without leaves and the silence between songs on vinyl records. His work appears in numerous literary and art journals including Writer’s Bloc, Fiction at Work, Prick of the Spindle, Ghoti Magazine, and PANK.

Neon Cowboys

or How the West Imagines Itself

An essay with cell phone pictures

By Elizabeth Cohen

There are places that hold out imagined versions of themselves; romantic versions, like long-divorced people who still hold onto feelings from a bygone marriage.  You can go to these places and have a dual  experience – you are in the actual place and yet you are bombarded with images of the way the place imagines itself. The idealized, iconic version that looks down at you from signs, glances at you from murals, peers out windows at you, begs for your money in little touristy shops, really has nothing to do with the place that actually is. It is easy to participate in the fantasy identity; it is usually more engaging, more palatable, far more romantic for sure, than the actual place. Hence you may walk through the grand Coliseum in Rome and ignore the impoverished surrounding neighborhoods, or to go to the Acropolis in Athens and feel like you are closer to God when the roads to get there are crumbling, the air practically unbreathable. Still you want that sensation of the other place, the emblematic one. We are willing to ignore so much to focus in on what we desire to experience in place.

Places can have alter-selves, like alter egos, that want you to believe in them. It almost is like you are being begged to participate in the fantasy version, and ignore the reality.

New York City is certainly one such place, wherever you go, the alleys of Chinatown, overflowing with odd vegetables, eels swimming in buckets; neat little streets in Little Italy that really could be in Italy, or a version of it; Harlem, Washington Heights, the Lower East Side’s diamond row, and you are surrounded by concrete, and people and buildings but see  images of the Statue of Liberty, the New York City skyline, Broadway, the Brooklyn Bridge. These are real parts of New York and also the emblems the city wants you to experience. They are embossed on tee shirts, sweatshirts, on signs, murals in restaurants, everywhere. For a time there was a restaurant on West Broadway south of Canal that had a miniature version of Lady Liberty’s head and crown, hovering over the street.  She is the patron saint of Manhattan and it sometimes seems she is worn on every possible surface.

Another such place is New Mexico, and the place I want to focus on here is Gallup, New Mexico. It is a small city in the north west corner of the state, not far from the Navajo reservation and maybe the last piece of unswept shrapnel of the wild west.  I will surely make enemies with its proud citizens when I say so here, but it is a sad burgh, downtrodden, speckled with trailer camps with circa 1970 trailers, foreclosed houses, little neighborhoods that look like they are trying so hard to hold onto what they’ve got but just can’t do it. It has a strip to end all strips, the former Route 66, that runs through town with all the standards, KFC, McDonalds, and every other possible fast food and chain joint in America.

Despite this, the city clings to this other version, a cinematic  version of the west, a cliché of lasso-wielding cowpokes and tee pees (native people of the region NEVER lived in tee pees); with neon roadrunners and every manner of western kitsch.

To drive through the town today is to see these now antique neon signs and murals, sculptures of giant Indian pots and rugs, and everywhere some antiquated visual narrative of a place that certainly isn’t the actual experience of the place today – and maybe never was. It is a surreal fantasy version. If Walt Disney were alive, it is the version he might cobble.

Yet while it is a neon lie, the images present an oddly enchanting and even at times breathtaking vision from an anthropological and a purely aesthetic perspective .

For those who live there, it probably  hardly registers, but to drive through fresh, from the high plains of I-40, red cliffs jutting like massive steam engines out of the east, the “old west” and “wild west” iconography seems quaint, even museum worthy. Like the highly referred-to Statue of Liberty in New York City or the Eiffel Tower in Paris, they are perfect examples of the way we tell ourselves a story about where we are in space and time, and even try hard to believe it, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Gallup , a town which straddles a mini range of mountains called the hogbacks, is a town that is most definitely down on its luck, a place where the population swells on the paydays and days the checks come in for dependent families. Those days the bars fill up and night finds the streets filled with stumblers. But there is a spirit of wannabe that holds out; the city is full of citizens who believe it will be, could be, might be, someday, the place it imagines it is.

Driving through fast, with nothing but a cell phone, seems somehow perfect, the technology somehow suiting the experience. Fast, cheap, haphazard, a little tipsy on the experience itself, I snapped my way through Gallup this winter. I tried to find images that captured the version the west wants us to take away. I tried to find the places that quote old western movies, the Hollywood west, the cowboy and Indians west. The generic native west. The roadrunner and coyote west. Where the landscape is so stark it aches in every direction toward the horizon. And you half think an anvil, at any moment, is about to drop upon your head.

………………………………………………….

Images taken with a BlackBerry Curve 8530 Smartphone

RHAPSODIES IN BLUE:

Miles Davis & Pablo Picasso

“Kind of Blue” is a studio album by American jazz musician Miles Davis, released August 17, 1959 on Columbia Records in the United States.  Recording sessions for the album took place at Columbia’s 30th Street Studio in New York City on March 2 and April 22, 1959. The sessions featured Davis’s ensemble sextet, which consisted of pianists bill Evans and Wynton Kelly, drummer Jimmy Cobb, bassist Paul Chambers, and saxophonists John Coltrane and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley.

“Kind of Blue” is based entirely on modality in contrast to Davis’s earlier work with the hard bop style of jazz. The entire album was composed as a series of modal sketches, in which each performer was given a set of scales that defined the parameters of their improvisation and style. This style was in contrast to more typical means of composing, such as providing musicians with a complete score or, as was more common for improvisational jazz, providing the musicians with a chord progression or series of harmonies.

Davis elaborated on this form of composition in contrast to the simple chord progression predominant in bebop, once stating

“No chords gives you a lot more freedom and space to hear things. When you go this way, you can go on forever. You don’t have to worry about changes and you can do more with the melody line. It becomes a challenge to see how melodically innovative you can be. When you’re based on chords, you know at the end of 32 bars that the chords have run out and there’s nothing to do but repeat what you’ve just done—with variations. I think a movement in jazz is beginning away from the conventional string of chords… there will be fewer chords but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them.”  This modal form of composition represented, as Davis called it, “a return to melody.”

There are only five tracks on this album, “So What”, played at a very moderate pace on this album, but always played much faster on later live recordings, while “Freddie Freeloader” is a standard twelve bar blues. “Blue in Green”, written by the great lyrical pianist, Bill Evans, consists of a ten-measure cycle following a short introduction and “All Blues” is another twelve bar blues form in 6/8 time. The longer “Flamenco Sketches” consists of five scales, which are each played as long as the soloist wishes, until he has completed the series.  All the melodies are gorgeous and each track has become a standard in the jazz repertoire.

The album’s influence has reached beyond jazz, as musicians of such genres as rock and classical have been influenced by it, while critics have acknowledged it as one of the most influential albums of all time. Many improvisatory rock musicians of the 1960s referred to “Kind of Blue” for inspiration.  Guitarist Duane Allman of the Allman Brothers Band  said his soloing on songs such as “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” comes from Miles and John Coltrane, and particularly “Kind of Blue”. Pink Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright has said that the chord progressions on the album influenced the structure of the introductory chords to the song “Breathe” on their landmark opus “The Dark Side of the Moon”. Producer Quincy Jones, one of Davis’ longtime friends, wrote: “That will always be my music, man. I play “Kind of Blue” every day — it’s my orange juice. It still sounds like it was made yesterday”

Why does “Kind of Blue” possess such a mystique?  Perhaps because this music never flaunts its genius. It’s the pinnacle of modal jazz — tonality and solos build from the overall key, not chord changes, giving the music a subtly shifting quality. It’s very cool music!  It might be a stretch to say that if you don’t like “Kind of Blue”, you don’t like jazz — but it’s hard to imagine it as anything other than a cornerstone of any jazz collection.  Since I first heard this album as a youngster in the early sixties, I’ve never been without it, have run through at least six copies of it — and still play it regularly.  If you have an Ipod and love good music — don’t leave home without “Kind of Blue”.

Sticking with the “Blue” theme, I’d like to talk a little about painting from an earlier period – Pablo Picasso’s “Blue” period.   Actually, come to think of it, Miles and Pablo had quite a bit in common in their different spheres of art.  Both were responsible for developing their art through several distinct stages, changing the face of art and music in the process.  Miles went through improvisory be-bop, introduced modal modern jazz before moving into electronic jazz-rock and ending, in his decline, with a form of pop-jazz.

Spanish-born, Pablo Picasso (25^th October 1881-8^th April 1973) is probably the best known name in the art of the last century and started out as a realist before moving into periods labeled respectively, his ‘Blue”, “Rose”, his “African” period, “Cubist” for which he is best known, then “Surrealist”,  “Classical” and later, ceramics.  Each of his periods revolutionized art in the twentieth century, although there was a sense that as he got older, he became self-indulgent and began to cruise on his legacy.  It happened to Miles and it happens to the best of us.

His “Blue” period lasted from 1901 to 1904 and consisted of rather somber paintings rendered in essentially monochromatic shades of blue and blue-green, only occasionally warmed by other colors.  This was an interim stage in Picasso’s work, a link between his earlier realism and the structured Cubism which was to change the face of art a few years later. These slightly “Mannerist” figures, a little elongated and distorted and inspired by Spanish culture but painted in Paris, are now some of his most popular works, although he had difficulty selling them at the time.  Many paintings of gaunt mothers with children date from this period. In his austere use of color and sometimes doleful subject matter — prostitutes, beggars and drunks are frequent subjects —Picasso was influenced by a trip through Spain and by the suicide of his friend Carlos Casagemas.  In fact, he later claimed that he started painting in blue when he learned of the death of his friend — Casagemas took his own life in public at L’Hippodrome Café in Paris, shooting himself in the head — but realistically the sequence of  events doesn’t quite add up and Picasso was not present at his friend’s death.

It seems to me that Picasso went through a period of personal depression at this time.  Perhaps his friend’s death triggered the issue of mortality, which affected him for the first time — or perhaps the intense introspection involved in the gestation of his new ideas and techniques brought on the gloom of the work of this period.  Personally, I believe that the Spanish psyche, catholic and steeped in religious guilt, contributed to the heavy darkness of his subject matter and the tones used to realize them at this time. Starting in the fall of 1901, Picasso painted several posthumous portraits of Casagemas, culminating in the gloomy allegorical painting “La Vie” (1903), now in the Cleveland Museum of Art.

The same mood pervades the well-known etching “The Frugal Repast” (1904), which depicts a blind man and a sighted woman, both emaciated, seated at a nearly bare table.  Blindness is a recurrent theme in Picasso’s works of this period, also represented in “The Blindman’s Meal” (1903) and in the portrait of “Celestina” (1903). Other frequent subjects include female nudes and mothers with children. Possibly his most well known work from this period is the very beautiful  ”Old guitarist”, a bearded figure folded around his guitar and painted in deep blues. Other major works include “Portrait of Soler” (1903) and “Las Dos Hermanas” (1904).

Picasso was soon to move on to what is called his “Rose” period, which lasted for a couple of years and was characterized by a much cheerier style, lighter with pink and orange colors, featuring circus people, acrobats and harlequins.  In 1904, Picasso had met and started a relationship with Fernande Olivier, a model for sculptors and painters, and this, combined with an increased exposure to French painting, seems to have done the trick, pulling him out of depression and the “Blue” period work associated with it.

It’s amazing what a bit of good loving can do for the soul!  He never returned to this period in his work and moved onto new pastures and the brilliant Cubism and pure Abstraction of later paintings.  But the stark, hopeless characters of his “Blue” period are now some of his most popular and highly acclaimed masterpieces, defining an era in his life that he was probably happy to put behind him.

The Blues ain’t nothing but a good man feelin’ bad….

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

How does a god feel when
trees and bushes turn green
without asking for his blessing?

How does a tree feel
when its leaves start turning pale?

How do the pale leaves feel when
the tree starts letting go of them?

How does a breeze feel
when a lull stops it in its tracks?

How does a star feel when
being slowly snuffed out by dawn?

How does a window feel when night comes
and it has nothing to show outside?

How does a door feel when
there’s no one to keep out?

How does a car feel with the hood up
standing idle by the road?

How does a page feel left blank?

How does a bird feel high in the sky
on suddenly forgetting how to fly?

How does a fish feel
about the world above the surface?

How does a pen feel when words
walk off the page and fly unaided
over a puddle of eyes and ears?

How does a feeling feel
in a paralyzed breast
running out of sighs?

MY WINTER IN DEBRECZEN

(Egy telem Debreczenben)  By Sándor Petőfi,

translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

Hey, you town of Debreczen,
how often you taunt my mind
with the suffering you gave to me!..
And yet you remain
a beloved and kind
guest in my memory.

A papist I am surely not,
yet I fasted there a lot.
Good thing the gods made mortal teeth
out of bone by wise design. No doubt,
had my teeth been made of steel,
they would’ve surely rusted out.

In the middle of a raw
winter of snow and sleet
my stove ran out of straw
and I slept without a whiff of heat.
Putting on my worn-out set
of rags I could easily recite
with the gypsy caught in a net:
“Must be real cold outside!”

The only help to me
was my poetry!
But how to record my riff
with fingers frozen stiff?
At last I hit upon the very thing,
kept my fingers twisted tight
around my always burning pipe,
till the welcome breeze of spring.

And what got me through the fast,
I’d fasted much worse in the past.

Egy telem Debrecenben

Hej, Debrecen,
Ha rád emlékezem!…
Sokat szenvedtem én tebenned,
És mindamellett
Oly jól esik nekem,
Ha rád emlékezem, -

Pápista nem vagyok.
És mégis voltak böjtjeim, pedig nagyok.
Jó, hogy az embernek csontfoga van,
Ezt bölcsen rendelék az istenek,
Mert hogyha vas lett volna a fogam,
A rozsda ette volna meg.

Aztán a télnek kellő közepében
Kifogya szépen
A fűtőszalmám,
S hideg szobában alvám.
Ha fölvevém kopott gubám,
Elmondhatám,
Mint a cigány, ki a hálóból néze ki:
“Juj, be hideg van odaki’!”

S az volt derék,
Ha verselék!
Ujjam megdermedt a hidegben,
És ekkor mire vetemedtem?
Hát mit tehettem egyebet?
Égő pipám
Szorítgatám,
Míg a fagy végre engedett.

Ez ínségben csak az vigasztala,
Hogy ennél már nagyobb ínségem is vala.

NATIONAL CALL

(Nemzeti dal)  by Sándor Petőfi,

translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

Rise you Magyars, heed the call!
It’s now or never, do not stall!
Shall we live enslaved or free?
Choose your chains or liberty.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Too long we have been prisoners,
The victims of an evil curse.
Our forebears lived and died unbound,
hey cannot rest in servile ground.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Only a knave is too afraid
To perish in his country’s aid
And values his wretched life above
His homeland’s honor and its love.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

The sword is brighter than the chain,
The arm looks better in its flame.
Then why the shackles tied on fast?
Let us grab our swords at last!
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Hungary will shine again,
Worthy of its golden name;
We shall wash it clean of dirt
Smeared on it by years’ of hurt!
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

In our graveyard on a hill,
On their knees our children will
Bless our tombstones and declaim
On them every holy name.
On the God of Hungar   We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Nemzeti dal

Talpra magyar, hí a haza!
Itt az idő, most vagy soha!
Rabok legyünk vagy szabadok?
Ez a kérdés, válasszatok! –
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Rabok voltunk mostanáig,
Kárhozottak ősapáink,
Kik szabadon éltek-haltak,
Szolgaföldben nem nyughatnak.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Sehonnai bitang ember,
Ki most, ha kell, halni nem mer,
Kinek drágább rongy élete,
Mint a haza becsülete.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Fényesebb a láncnál a kard,
Jobban ékesíti a kart,
És mi mégis láncot hordtunk!
Ide veled, régi kardunk!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

A magyar név megint szép lesz,
Méltó régi nagy hiréhez;
Mit rákentek a századok,
Lemossuk a gyalázatot!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Hol sírjaink domborulnak,
Unokáink leborulnak,
És áldó imádság mellett
Mondják el szent neveinket.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

(Pest, 1848. március 13.)

(This poem, written in March 1848 and recited by the poet at public gatherings, ignited a revolution against the Hapsburg rule over Hungary. Footnote by the translator.)

Olaf Heine at Clark/Oshin Gallery

New York City

THE POETRY PROJECT
The Poetry Project is located at St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery
131 East 10th Street at Second Avenue
New York City 10003
Trains: 6, F, N, R, and L.
“mailto:info@poetryproject.org”
“http://www.poetryproject.org/”

NYU Creative Writing Program Reading Series
All events are free and open to the public, no RSVP required.
View the entire schedule here: “http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries” href=”http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries”>http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries
(you can also find us on Facebook at Nyu CreativeWriting).

The Writers House
NYU Creative Writing Program
Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House
58 West 10th Street, New York, NY 10011
(p) 212-998-8816  (f) 212-995-4864

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Los Angeles

La Luz de Jesus

Four solo shows opening under one roof
Opens Friday, January 7, 2011; 8-11 PM
runs through January 30th.

Last year we debuted the Art of the Lowbrow Tarot Exhibition, hosted Scott Hove‘s cakeland extravaganza, Iced Out, and made household names of Christopher Ulrich, Laurie Lipton and Fiddle Tim. So what are opening with in 2011?  Steven Daily has been working for fourteen months on his conspiracy theory, magnum opus Covenant. Part exhibition, part installation, and no secret handshake required, the work is Daily’s best, and is sure to rattle some cages.

Howard Hallis has completed his thirteen year project The Picture of Everything. It’s fifteen feet tall and has to be seen to be believed!

Tammi Otis was such a hit i last year’s Everything But the Kitschen Sync show, that we decided to give her a lot more space, and A Fertile Madness his gold-leafed, feature debut in Los Angeles.

Charles Binger was a master illustrator, working in Hollywood and on Madison Avenue for five decades. He passed away in the early seventies without being recognized for his award-winning paperback and poster art. A Pulp Life is the first ever retrospective of his life’s work, and it is an absolutely stunning collection.

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Binghamton

River Read Books, Court Street at the bridge, Binghamton

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Missouri
 
Musicians – Take a shot at fame & fortune

Kick ass on KKID, Rolla, Missouri 

Sunday Nights on KKID 92.9 FM, tune in to Nick Thomas and Bootsy Hambone
for the rockin’, rolllin’ blues coming out of Rolla, Missouri and surrounds.
This show is an open invitational to musicians who want to share
their music  — which means you never really know what
you’re going to get, but generally speaking, it’s pretty damn good.
Streaming and screaming from KKID….
Tell ‘em ragazine sent you…. 

Excerpts below are reproduced in cooperation
with Kitchen Caravan. For more delightful
and exotic recipes and cultural insights, visit
http://www.kitchencaravan.com

_____________________________

Summer 2010

By Emma Piper Burket

THE IRAQI SEED PROJECT                                           VOLUME 3, SUMMER 2010

In the days of yore a farmer gave (these) instructions to his son… Your implements should be ready. The parts of your yoke should be assembled. Your new whip should hang from a nail — the bindings of the handle of your old whip should be repaired by artisans. The adze, drill and saw, your tools and your strength, should be in good order. Let braided thongs, straps, leather wrappings and whips be attached securely. Let your sowing basket be checked, and its sides made strong. What you need for the field should be at hand. Inspect your work carefully.         - from “the first farmer’s almanac,” an ancient tablet from 1500 BCE found in Nippur, Iraq in 1949

Your gardens and local farmer’s markets are likely in full bloom as we enjoy the last weeks of summer; look around at some of the bounty: cucumbers, melons, apricots, grapes, peas, onions, okra… these crops have been growing in Iraq for thousands of years.  Maybe when you take your next bite you will think of the farmers in Iraq who are enjoying similar tastes and textures so far away.

LATEST DEVELOPMENTS

• Editing begins: Since returning from our June filming trip, we have been editing and organizing footage, photographs and audio files. We hope to share some of the material with you soon… To do this we need to build our website’s library: You can help!

• Seeds of Kurdistan: We are happy to announce the launching of our latest initiative. This website celebrates the agricultural traditions of Iraqi Kurdistan and will also provide training materials for the region’s farmers.

• Facebook- you can now keep track of the latest news of agricultural activities in Iraq as well as what’s happening at The Iraqi Seed Project by following us on facebook.

NEWS, LINKS & THINGS TO THINK ABOUT

• The Tiziano Project just wrapped up a summer workshop in Erbil, training local journalists in new media skills. Watch the video Zana Mamundy, one of their students, produced about grain growers in Mahkmour.

• Wheat Fleet: August 19-21st we are floating a portion of the Willamette River to promote local grain growing in Oregon. 

• In June we visited the Farmer Kamal outside of Erbil, after a tour of his farm he invited us for a delicious home-grown lunch. Here is a very simple recipe for bulgur, or cracked wheat, prepared the way farmer Kamal makes it:

-2 cups bulgur

-1 onion

-olive oil or ghee

-4 cups chicken (or vegetable) broth

-salt, and seasonings to taste

Chop the onions and sauté them in oil with a heavy bottomed pot, add the bulgur and seasonings, pour over the broth and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer until broth is nearly absorbed. Turn off heat and allow to steam for 5 minutes.

ON THE ROAD

This Fall The Iraqi Seed Project is going on tour, collecting messages for Iraqi farmers and offering a sneak peak of our film; contact us about scheduling a farm visit, rough cut screening or fundraising event at a community center or school in your area. Check the website for upcoming dates in San Francisco, Philadelphia and Washington DC.

DONATE

As you know, we are in the process of editing and building The Iraqi Seed Project‘s library on our website. We are currently operating with zero funding. Please consider making a tax-deductible donation through Arts Engine, our fiscal sponsor, so that we may continue our work!

SHARE

And of course… we are still collecting images, articles, essays, videos and links for the library— remember you don’t have to be an expert to participate. Be part of our knowledge exchange and share what you know about Iraq, sustainable agriculture, seed saving, biodiversity, or home gardening.

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May-June

On the road to BAGHDAD

THE IRAQI SEED PROJECT: (LATE) SPRING 2010

Website is up and running for The Iraqi Seed Project – Visit www.iraqiseedproject.com to learn more about what Emma & friends are up to and ways you can get involved.

• Ready to go: The team left the first week of June for a filming trip to Iraq and Iraqi Kurdistan. Internet reports will be a bit spotty, but whenever possible, they will post notes and photos on the Field Journal section of the website — so check there for updates. We will be spending our time in Northern Iraq with the Kurdish Ministry of Agriculture, on small farms in the area, and visiting some USDA project sites around Baghdad.

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Mint Julep en Rose

Explore More Recipes:

Fizz à la Violette

The Andalus

Mint Tea Martini

Adapted from The Gentleman’s Companion: An Exotic Drinking Book

6 sprigs of mint
1 teaspoon sugar + 1 teaspoon rose syrup

OR

2 teaspoons sugar + 1 tablespoon rose water

1 ounce bourbon

Juice of ½ lime

Garnish: Marachino cherry and/or edible flowers

Muddle 2 sprigs of the mint, the sugar, and rose syrup or rose water in a martini shaker. Make sure you muddle well to get the essence of the mint extracted. Add in a good amount of ice. Pour over the bourbon and add 2 more sprigs of mint (unbruised) and the lime juice. Shake it up really well and pour into a glass filled with ice and top with the remaining 2 sprigs of mint and a colorful edible flower.

Serves 1.

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March April

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Freekeh and Garbanzo Pilaf

This is a very healthy vegetarian dish that is high in fiber and full of Mediterranean flavor.  Freekeh is wheat that has been harvested while still very young, and thus is very high in protein, vitamins, and minerals.  It has a slightly smoky flavor due to the way the wheat is processed after harvest, so it pairs well with mellow flavors, such as beans and chicken.  This recipe calls for cooking the beans from scratch, but feel free to use canned garbanzos for a faster version.  The “Short” sauce is a light pesto that adds a zing of herbs and lemon to sharpen the taste of the dish at the end.

For the Garbanzos:

½ cup dried garbanzo beans, soaked at least 4 hours
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic
1 sprig thyme
a few black peppercorns

For the Pilaf:

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
¼ cup yellow onion, small dice
¼ cup carrot, peeled, small dice
¼ cup fennel, small dice
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Pinch of cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground coriander
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
1 cup freekeh, rinsed and soaked for 30 minutes
cups vegetable broth

Short Sauce:

1 ½ cups fresh cilantro, rinsed and roughly chopped
1 cup parsley, rinsed and roughly chopped
1 sprig mint, leaves roughly chopped
½ cup pinenuts, lightly toasted
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon lemon zest
Juice of 1 lemon
Salt to taste (about ¼ teaspoon)

For the Garbanzos:

Drain the garbanzos of their soaking liquid.

Place in a medium sized pot and cover with about 3 cups fresh water.  Add the rest of the ingredients (you can place them in a bouquet garni bag if you want) and bring the water up to a boil.  Simmer until the garbanzos are cooked through.  Drain, remove the aromatics, and set aside.

To Prepare the Pilaf:

Heat up the olive oil in a medium sized pot.  Sweat the onion, carrot, fennel, and garlic until the onion and fennel appear translucent.  Add the spices and a pinch of salt, and stir for another minute or two.  Drain the freekeh of its soaking liquid and add it to the pot.  Stir everything together so that the freekeh is well integrated, and cook for about 2 minutes, stirring gently.  Pour over the broth and bring to a simmer.  Cover the pot and let cook for 30 minutes.  Add the garbanzos and continue to cook for another 5-10 minutes, or until the liquid has been absorbed and the wheat is cooked through.  Keep in mind that these are wheat berries, so they will have a slightly chewy texture and will not be completely soft.

Make the short sauce by blending all of the ingredients together until coarsely chopped, you do not want a smooth puree.  Spoon a bit of the sauce into the pot and stir to combine.  Serve while warm.

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For more recipes from around the world, visit
Kitchen Caravan on-line.

Kitchen Caravan was started by Sophia Brittan and Emma Piper-Burket  in January of 2007 to provide an online resource for healthy eating and cultural education with quality content and a valuable learning experience.
Check it out. Archives explore foods from around the world.