Friday, February 15, 2008
Going For A Walk
Well folks, I will be out the door soon and I will not have time to update this site especially on a daily basis. Once I get back from my travels, Neoterra will soon again be active. To all the past contributors and to my readers: THANK YOU! I started this project especially for you guys. I will be looking forward to hearing from contributors again once I get back to the States.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Darkroom
by Paris J.
i feel diluted with the past wrapping around,
gripping steel-plated throats with familiar sounds,
frictional static, radiating heat
from a certain ex-persona enigmatic,
brings me back to the days
of our zealous ways,
when we cared not for the limit or for the pay,
but what we could afford for our own accord,
to breathe warm wind from the sea onto the shore,
our bodies in sync with the movement,
yet always wanting more.
the force of our push-pull mechanism,
dealing both the damage and beauty within our tainted
prism,
makes for a prison lacking confinement,
yet deceives as an open field for soul alignment,
where we once flew with what we thought we knew,
about one another, the former of each other,
our cover, to hover, our faded imprints as old lovers,
when a song becomes a voice,
a film reminds us of a choice,
a photograph becomes a body,
you held between your palms so fondly,
remnants of you, of me,
what we always wanted to see,
what our desires drove us to be,
but what we soon had to realize, eventually,
and it was a long way to get out,
fruitless, futile efforts, all full of doubt,
what i made to hate only on me would perforate,
it's a wonder i didn't fall again,
into your once mesmerizing spin...
as much as i make it out to be of insignificance.
i feel diluted with the past wrapping around,
gripping steel-plated throats with familiar sounds,
frictional static, radiating heat
from a certain ex-persona enigmatic,
brings me back to the days
of our zealous ways,
when we cared not for the limit or for the pay,
but what we could afford for our own accord,
to breathe warm wind from the sea onto the shore,
our bodies in sync with the movement,
yet always wanting more.
the force of our push-pull mechanism,
dealing both the damage and beauty within our tainted
prism,
makes for a prison lacking confinement,
yet deceives as an open field for soul alignment,
where we once flew with what we thought we knew,
about one another, the former of each other,
our cover, to hover, our faded imprints as old lovers,
when a song becomes a voice,
a film reminds us of a choice,
a photograph becomes a body,
you held between your palms so fondly,
remnants of you, of me,
what we always wanted to see,
what our desires drove us to be,
but what we soon had to realize, eventually,
and it was a long way to get out,
fruitless, futile efforts, all full of doubt,
what i made to hate only on me would perforate,
it's a wonder i didn't fall again,
into your once mesmerizing spin...
as much as i make it out to be of insignificance.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
New Land. New Horizons
I've decided to change the name of the magazine for both legal and personal purposes. I thought that the past name was too bland and concrete. I wanted a name that can embody my mission and vision for this magazine. This is a place where anyone from any land can be heard expressing their souls through poetry and literature. Through essays and featured articles on politics, culture, and philosophy, I want to create bridges and seal gaps, so that together we all can move on to a new land--to Neoterra.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
New Poetry from Ailing Kent
Upsurge
It's about how it moves unlike running water,
unlike rushing currents which seem to not know
of things like dead ends. They seem to lead
like people who take part in a race, reaching
new places. But not here, where the wind whispers
in silence, and a pond rests in stillness. Stagnant
like the rigid mind, it holds no room for simple
wonders which make up all things profound.
How easy it is to stir with the least of things,
like leaves falling slowly on its olive glass waters,
and the gradual settling of pebbles beneath, then
touching on its entire being. Back on the surface,
ripples form in circles. They spread and head toward
waiting banks that watch in anticipation for the coming
of these little surges. As they arrive to say hello and leave
again to go back in to the heart of the pond, there comes
the occasional visit from a wanderer. He swims and finds
himself resurfacing, his hands high, alive, naked, and free.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Demons
You might have read about this thing
Called possession and went to see horror
Movies produced for Hollywood's sake
Or preferred to watch local TV flicks
That make for cheap scare. Nevertheless,
They made spiders out of your imagination.
We talked that evening after a long day
Of having nothing to do but wait for dark
Skies to flush all lightness down the drain.
How you said it could be, that in you
And me, lies a demon. In every mind
Exists a creature lurking as though it were
One with our system. Peculiar, but more
Common than we think. You have grown
To believe these satanic entities were trapped
Within the human body since birth--
That there is a need to grant them passage
For escape. Liberation from what bound
Them inside us from the very beginning.
Whereas I, after pondering on deliverance,
Prayers, and the casting away of evil,
Felt pity for the lonesome demon. For whom
Knew of no love, of true joy? Not one of us
Has or ever will pray for the fallen. The living
Will have many days, countless beginnings,
And a moment to repent. And in those times,
What demons would have done was to stir you
Away from yourself, try to conquer, and eat
Shards of what they call the conscience.
When all else fails, they cannot leave to rest.
What is left for us to save? So we swore
To exorcise those demons from ourselves.
It's about how it moves unlike running water,
unlike rushing currents which seem to not know
of things like dead ends. They seem to lead
like people who take part in a race, reaching
new places. But not here, where the wind whispers
in silence, and a pond rests in stillness. Stagnant
like the rigid mind, it holds no room for simple
wonders which make up all things profound.
How easy it is to stir with the least of things,
like leaves falling slowly on its olive glass waters,
and the gradual settling of pebbles beneath, then
touching on its entire being. Back on the surface,
ripples form in circles. They spread and head toward
waiting banks that watch in anticipation for the coming
of these little surges. As they arrive to say hello and leave
again to go back in to the heart of the pond, there comes
the occasional visit from a wanderer. He swims and finds
himself resurfacing, his hands high, alive, naked, and free.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Demons
You might have read about this thing
Called possession and went to see horror
Movies produced for Hollywood's sake
Or preferred to watch local TV flicks
That make for cheap scare. Nevertheless,
They made spiders out of your imagination.
We talked that evening after a long day
Of having nothing to do but wait for dark
Skies to flush all lightness down the drain.
How you said it could be, that in you
And me, lies a demon. In every mind
Exists a creature lurking as though it were
One with our system. Peculiar, but more
Common than we think. You have grown
To believe these satanic entities were trapped
Within the human body since birth--
That there is a need to grant them passage
For escape. Liberation from what bound
Them inside us from the very beginning.
Whereas I, after pondering on deliverance,
Prayers, and the casting away of evil,
Felt pity for the lonesome demon. For whom
Knew of no love, of true joy? Not one of us
Has or ever will pray for the fallen. The living
Will have many days, countless beginnings,
And a moment to repent. And in those times,
What demons would have done was to stir you
Away from yourself, try to conquer, and eat
Shards of what they call the conscience.
When all else fails, they cannot leave to rest.
What is left for us to save? So we swore
To exorcise those demons from ourselves.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Excalibur
by Michael Mira
The stone hit the water, shattering the surface, creating ripples--perfectly round--that expanded until a log lying dormant broke its outline.
I used to wonder if Excalibur waited underneath, anticipating the embrace of my palm. My childlike imaginings would run wild as I sat by the banks. Castles, knights, and beautiful maidens made up the landscape of my youth. Until an incident happened one Summer when I saw a dead body floating beneath the dock, like a an ice-cube dancing around a clear glass of water, but it would not melt--the body never vanished, and yet my castles disappeared. I never did find my Excalibur.
The stone hit the water, shattering the surface, creating ripples--perfectly round--that expanded until a log lying dormant broke its outline.
I used to wonder if Excalibur waited underneath, anticipating the embrace of my palm. My childlike imaginings would run wild as I sat by the banks. Castles, knights, and beautiful maidens made up the landscape of my youth. Until an incident happened one Summer when I saw a dead body floating beneath the dock, like a an ice-cube dancing around a clear glass of water, but it would not melt--the body never vanished, and yet my castles disappeared. I never did find my Excalibur.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
My Love Is To A Star
by T.W.I.M.C.
My love is to a star
Out of reach to all but the eyes
Destined only to be gazed upon it seems
What wonderful device created thee?
Was it a benevolent being?
Gracing me with your incredible abilities?
To illuminating even the darkest side of me,
And your unwavering presents dare I say sooths me
Can I ever touch you the same way you touch me?
Caressing my soul with your purity
You are the diamond of my eyes
As I am just another planet in your life
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
FYI: T.W.I.M.C. stands for "To Whom It May Concern"
My love is to a star
Out of reach to all but the eyes
Destined only to be gazed upon it seems
What wonderful device created thee?
Was it a benevolent being?
Gracing me with your incredible abilities?
To illuminating even the darkest side of me,
And your unwavering presents dare I say sooths me
Can I ever touch you the same way you touch me?
Caressing my soul with your purity
You are the diamond of my eyes
As I am just another planet in your life
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
FYI: T.W.I.M.C. stands for "To Whom It May Concern"
Moral Courage
Some of the evidence for moral courage is found in the lives and practices of admirable world leaders:
-Mahatma Gandhi advocating his philosophy of nonviolence in the struggle for a free India despite repeated internment.
-Nelson Mandela enduring eighteen years of degrading imprisonment on Robben Island and still being able to forgive his oppressors in the apartheid regime of South Africa.
-Lech Walesa rising from the shipyards of Gdansk to lead the Solidarity Movement that ultimately played a decisive role in toppling Communism in Poland.
-Vaclav Havel, a dissident playwright, enduring three prison sentences for organizing strong opposition to Communist rule of Czechoslovakia.
-Aung San Suu Kyi defiantly resisting her imprisonment in Myanmar and remainingan outspoken voice for democracy.
Reference: Moral Courage by Rushworth M. Kidder
Saturday, February 9, 2008
12 Feet Of Separation
by Michael Mira
my mind can no longer
produce harmonic melodies,
but only broken syllables
that race from nerve-ending
to nerve-ending,
in this never ending
search for words to utter
in the dark.
my tongue is tied in knots
and I cannot express my deepest
sorrows. I cannot tell you stories
of times when I chanted your name
in caves and dark dwellings,
repeating your name like a mantra.
now, I am speechless,
and the thick barrier of silence
between us has become larger.
close the door that connect us,
I have nothing more to say to you.
my mind can no longer
produce harmonic melodies,
but only broken syllables
that race from nerve-ending
to nerve-ending,
in this never ending
search for words to utter
in the dark.
my tongue is tied in knots
and I cannot express my deepest
sorrows. I cannot tell you stories
of times when I chanted your name
in caves and dark dwellings,
repeating your name like a mantra.
now, I am speechless,
and the thick barrier of silence
between us has become larger.
close the door that connect us,
I have nothing more to say to you.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Sirens In The Night
by Michael Mira
I was walking down the street to the corner store when I heard the incoming sound of an ambulance's siren from behind me. The siren wailed like a woman weeping over a dead child. It became louder as the speeding vehicle approached. I've always wondered who was in the back of ambulances; a mother of four who just had a heart-attack? A 10-year old boy who was hit by a car while crossing the street? A police-officer shot by a drunkard during a routine traffic stop? The ambulance passed me by like a sword easily cutting air. The siren faded, faded, faded--then vanished from earshot.
I was walking down the street to the corner store when I heard the incoming sound of an ambulance's siren from behind me. The siren wailed like a woman weeping over a dead child. It became louder as the speeding vehicle approached. I've always wondered who was in the back of ambulances; a mother of four who just had a heart-attack? A 10-year old boy who was hit by a car while crossing the street? A police-officer shot by a drunkard during a routine traffic stop? The ambulance passed me by like a sword easily cutting air. The siren faded, faded, faded--then vanished from earshot.
Monday, February 4, 2008
K.N.O.W.L.E.D.G.E.
In the late 1950s, the poverty rate for all Americans was 22.4 percent, or 39.5 million individuals. These numbers declined steadily throughout the 1960s, reaching a low of 11.1 percent, or 22.9 million individuals, in 1973. Over the next decade, the poverty rate fluctuated between 11.1 and 12.6 percent, but it began to rise steadily again in 1980. By 1983, the number of poor individuals had risen to 35.3 million individuals, or 15.2 percent.For the next ten years, the poverty rate remained above 12.8 percent, increasing to 15.1 percent, or 39.3 million individuals, by 1993. The rate declined for the remainder of the decade, to 11.3 percent by 2000. Since then, it has risen each year, to 12.7 percent in 2004.
-National Poverty Center, University of Michigan
Sunday, February 3, 2008
The Day I Fell in Love with Him was The Day I Lost Him
by Iris
How it never struck me that those carefree caresses on the cheek were not just childish fun but each touch was a warm emotion yearning to be hugged.
How it never occurred to me that those deep glances into my eyes were but his deepest desire to touch me in any way.
How it never occurred to me that his every excuse to be with me, was his desire to want me.
How it never dawned on me, that all I wanted was to be by his side, by day and by night.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can catch Iris on her blog: http://chicken-tikka-masala.blogspot.com/
How it never struck me that those carefree caresses on the cheek were not just childish fun but each touch was a warm emotion yearning to be hugged.
How it never occurred to me that those deep glances into my eyes were but his deepest desire to touch me in any way.
How it never occurred to me that his every excuse to be with me, was his desire to want me.
How it never dawned on me, that all I wanted was to be by his side, by day and by night.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can catch Iris on her blog: http://chicken-tikka-masala.blogspot.com/
Tailcoat
by Alex Aldren
I must bid you farewell,
because you're old news.
You were here today,
but you'll be gone tomorrow--
out of my life.
I mean, it's not like you were
ever there.
Not even a call on the phone?
What kind of shit is that?
Just because you and I are blood
doesn't mean I can hold on to your
tailcoat forever.
Blood, it clots and dries
you know?
I remember the day I actually tried
to look for you, to find a bridge
between us.
But all I found was a box of empty promises.
That's not a good present to give a little
boy you used to call your son you know?
You could of atleast wrapped it up in some
fancy gift-wrap and slapped a ribbon on top,
Atleast then, I could have called you my
Disney-land Dad.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alex Aldren is a frelance writer and is a drummer for a local indie-band in Baltimore, Maryland. He finds comfort in writing and blames his obsession for anime and manga on his ex-girlfriend who first introduced him to a show called Cowboy Bebop.
I must bid you farewell,
because you're old news.
You were here today,
but you'll be gone tomorrow--
out of my life.
I mean, it's not like you were
ever there.
Not even a call on the phone?
What kind of shit is that?
Just because you and I are blood
doesn't mean I can hold on to your
tailcoat forever.
Blood, it clots and dries
you know?
I remember the day I actually tried
to look for you, to find a bridge
between us.
But all I found was a box of empty promises.
That's not a good present to give a little
boy you used to call your son you know?
You could of atleast wrapped it up in some
fancy gift-wrap and slapped a ribbon on top,
Atleast then, I could have called you my
Disney-land Dad.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alex Aldren is a frelance writer and is a drummer for a local indie-band in Baltimore, Maryland. He finds comfort in writing and blames his obsession for anime and manga on his ex-girlfriend who first introduced him to a show called Cowboy Bebop.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Orpheus
by Michael Mira
Today, I thought that I would contribute one of my own micro-fiction stories. I wrote this one a while back called Orpheus. It's one of the many stories that I have included in my two-year book project, a collection of about 80-100 (yes, that much!) flash-fiction. No publisher or agent will probably dare to touch it, but hey, I love writing so I don't mind one bit. Well, here it is. Enjoy.
Except for the crickets in the background, the evening was pretty quiet. The one advantage of having a golf course as your backyard is that you can go out to it at night, lay down anywhere, and stargaze while smoking some pot. Well, we didn't have any pot with us, but we were lying down near the 12th hole on a mound that surrounded it. I looked up and immediately spotted Orion's belt. I had an eye for this type of thing because I once had a neighbor who was an amateur astronomer. I remember when I first met him. He was at his terrace looking through a huge telescope. "See any naked chicks?" I asked him. He shook his head. "None yet." he replied back without lifting his head. We used to hang out on his terrace and crack open some beers as he taught me the different constellations that you could see in that part of the hemisphere. He died a few years ago, the night before I moved out of my apartment. That night there was a meteor-shower and I watched it in my own terrace. I noticed that he wasn't in his looking at the spectacle himself. Things like meteor-showers is what gives amateur astronomers like him a hard-on. I knocked on his door, but he didn't answer. I knew he was home because the lights were on. I feared the worst and called 911. The firemen broke down the door as paramedics rushed in. They found his body in the shower, with the water still on. He had a heart attack. He was somewhere among those meteors that night.
Jessica sat up and looked at me. "I want to tell you something important." I looked up at her moonlit face without getting up. "What is it?" I asked. She took a deep breathe indicating that it was something really important. I sat up and waited for the bullets to hit me. We stared at each other for a while.
"Tell me already."
"I wanna break up."
What a relief, I thought it was something big. I don't know why she had to tell me this. We both knew it was inevitable. I mean our relationship, if you could even call it that, has been on thin ice the last few months. It was like having a bullet lodged in your stomach. Blood and stomach acid is pouring out of your body, and you accept your fate. You accept the fact that you've reached the end of the road. You just slouch there on the ground to wait for the blackness of unconsciousness to smack you on the head.
"Say something!" she yelled.
"Don't be so loud. My neighbors will here you. You know we can't be here at this time of the night." I told her.
"Isn't this like part of your backyard?"
"Yeah, but it belongs to the company that owns this neighborhood."
"Your own backyard is somebody else's property?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"That's fucked up." she realized that I had just sneakily changed the subject. "Nice try. Back to what I was talking about. What do you think?" she asked.
"What do I think about what? Breaking up?"
"Yes. Do you agree with it?"
"I thought breaking up with someone's a one-way street? You don't need my permission. It's your decision. If you want to break up, then that's fine--if it makes you happy." I told her as I laid back down.
"What do you mean that's fine?" she said with a burst of anger.
"I mean we knew this is where we would end up. What did you think when we first met, that we would get married?"
"Maybe."
"Stop lying to yourself. You knew it would end someday." I said while looking at the constellatoin Lyra. It was the constellation of the lyre that belonged to Orpheus, in Greek mythology. I thought about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. It was the last story my neighbor had told me before he died. He said that it was the story of him and his wife, who divorced him a while back. She moved on while he never got over it. After the divorce was when he began having heart problems. He told me that if she had died before him, he would kill himself and jump into the underworld to join her. I asked him what would happen if she wasn't in the underworld, but in another realm. He just shrugged his shoulders and took a sip from his beer bottle.
Orpheus and Eurydice loved each other with great passion, but their bond grew stronger only after Eurydice had died from a snake bite. He lost her twice actually. Once was when she first died, and the other was when he convinced the king and queen of the underworld, with the help of his lyre, to get Eurydice and bring her back to life. They gave him one condition though: that he had to walk through the valley and up the slope that led to he surface of the earth without looking at Eurydice. Upon nearing the world of the living, Orpheus made the mistake of looking back at Eurydice because of his anxiousness to look at her face. She then immediately went back into the underworld; lost from him once again. He was heartbroken afterwards, but later on he was murdered by a group of women, for some reason, and was finally reunited with Eurydice in the underworld.
I looked at Jessica and saw that she was crying. I wanted to hold her, but for some reason I laid there frozen, listening to her soft sobs.
"I guess that's the way it will go." she said weakly, after her crying subsided. "I wasn't really going to break up with you, you know? I just wanted to see how you would react. You're right though, this relationship has been dead a long time ago."
She stood up and looked down at me. All I saw were her silhouette. The last image of her I'll probably ever see.
"I'm not diving into the underworld for you." was all I could say.
"What the fuck does that mean?" she asked, confused and angry at the same time.
"Nothing."
"Good-bye Michael." she said before walking off towards my house. I said nothing. What more can I say? It was the end of that. I looked up and saw the stars shining brighter than ever.
Today, I thought that I would contribute one of my own micro-fiction stories. I wrote this one a while back called Orpheus. It's one of the many stories that I have included in my two-year book project, a collection of about 80-100 (yes, that much!) flash-fiction. No publisher or agent will probably dare to touch it, but hey, I love writing so I don't mind one bit. Well, here it is. Enjoy.
Except for the crickets in the background, the evening was pretty quiet. The one advantage of having a golf course as your backyard is that you can go out to it at night, lay down anywhere, and stargaze while smoking some pot. Well, we didn't have any pot with us, but we were lying down near the 12th hole on a mound that surrounded it. I looked up and immediately spotted Orion's belt. I had an eye for this type of thing because I once had a neighbor who was an amateur astronomer. I remember when I first met him. He was at his terrace looking through a huge telescope. "See any naked chicks?" I asked him. He shook his head. "None yet." he replied back without lifting his head. We used to hang out on his terrace and crack open some beers as he taught me the different constellations that you could see in that part of the hemisphere. He died a few years ago, the night before I moved out of my apartment. That night there was a meteor-shower and I watched it in my own terrace. I noticed that he wasn't in his looking at the spectacle himself. Things like meteor-showers is what gives amateur astronomers like him a hard-on. I knocked on his door, but he didn't answer. I knew he was home because the lights were on. I feared the worst and called 911. The firemen broke down the door as paramedics rushed in. They found his body in the shower, with the water still on. He had a heart attack. He was somewhere among those meteors that night.
Jessica sat up and looked at me. "I want to tell you something important." I looked up at her moonlit face without getting up. "What is it?" I asked. She took a deep breathe indicating that it was something really important. I sat up and waited for the bullets to hit me. We stared at each other for a while.
"Tell me already."
"I wanna break up."
What a relief, I thought it was something big. I don't know why she had to tell me this. We both knew it was inevitable. I mean our relationship, if you could even call it that, has been on thin ice the last few months. It was like having a bullet lodged in your stomach. Blood and stomach acid is pouring out of your body, and you accept your fate. You accept the fact that you've reached the end of the road. You just slouch there on the ground to wait for the blackness of unconsciousness to smack you on the head.
"Say something!" she yelled.
"Don't be so loud. My neighbors will here you. You know we can't be here at this time of the night." I told her.
"Isn't this like part of your backyard?"
"Yeah, but it belongs to the company that owns this neighborhood."
"Your own backyard is somebody else's property?"
"Yeah. Pretty much."
"That's fucked up." she realized that I had just sneakily changed the subject. "Nice try. Back to what I was talking about. What do you think?" she asked.
"What do I think about what? Breaking up?"
"Yes. Do you agree with it?"
"I thought breaking up with someone's a one-way street? You don't need my permission. It's your decision. If you want to break up, then that's fine--if it makes you happy." I told her as I laid back down.
"What do you mean that's fine?" she said with a burst of anger.
"I mean we knew this is where we would end up. What did you think when we first met, that we would get married?"
"Maybe."
"Stop lying to yourself. You knew it would end someday." I said while looking at the constellatoin Lyra. It was the constellation of the lyre that belonged to Orpheus, in Greek mythology. I thought about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. It was the last story my neighbor had told me before he died. He said that it was the story of him and his wife, who divorced him a while back. She moved on while he never got over it. After the divorce was when he began having heart problems. He told me that if she had died before him, he would kill himself and jump into the underworld to join her. I asked him what would happen if she wasn't in the underworld, but in another realm. He just shrugged his shoulders and took a sip from his beer bottle.
Orpheus and Eurydice loved each other with great passion, but their bond grew stronger only after Eurydice had died from a snake bite. He lost her twice actually. Once was when she first died, and the other was when he convinced the king and queen of the underworld, with the help of his lyre, to get Eurydice and bring her back to life. They gave him one condition though: that he had to walk through the valley and up the slope that led to he surface of the earth without looking at Eurydice. Upon nearing the world of the living, Orpheus made the mistake of looking back at Eurydice because of his anxiousness to look at her face. She then immediately went back into the underworld; lost from him once again. He was heartbroken afterwards, but later on he was murdered by a group of women, for some reason, and was finally reunited with Eurydice in the underworld.
I looked at Jessica and saw that she was crying. I wanted to hold her, but for some reason I laid there frozen, listening to her soft sobs.
"I guess that's the way it will go." she said weakly, after her crying subsided. "I wasn't really going to break up with you, you know? I just wanted to see how you would react. You're right though, this relationship has been dead a long time ago."
She stood up and looked down at me. All I saw were her silhouette. The last image of her I'll probably ever see.
"I'm not diving into the underworld for you." was all I could say.
"What the fuck does that mean?" she asked, confused and angry at the same time.
"Nothing."
"Good-bye Michael." she said before walking off towards my house. I said nothing. What more can I say? It was the end of that. I looked up and saw the stars shining brighter than ever.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Happy Family (1/1/08)
by Celia Castro
Guilt and rage sat on the stairs
silently contemplating each other
rage's eyes darting
while holding a rigid stance -
Like black sky before a storm -
(like her suppression).
Guilt sheepishly bit at her hangnails
nervously avoiding the cameraman
- Lust -
whose telephoto lens hit the middle of the scene
That space - a barometric truce.
meanwhile innocence played nearby, and
melancholy made a meal of them all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Celia Castro has been writing her whole life. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents were immigrants from Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic who arrived in this country with not much more than elementary school education. At a very young age Celia discovered her love for words. She found in words an ability to express the intricacies of growing up belonging to dual worlds. She has been writing poetry since she was 11 years old just because she has always felt it is a great way to paint a picture without a paintbrush.
Guilt and rage sat on the stairs
silently contemplating each other
rage's eyes darting
while holding a rigid stance -
Like black sky before a storm -
(like her suppression).
Guilt sheepishly bit at her hangnails
nervously avoiding the cameraman
- Lust -
whose telephoto lens hit the middle of the scene
That space - a barometric truce.
meanwhile innocence played nearby, and
melancholy made a meal of them all.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Celia Castro has been writing her whole life. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. Her parents were immigrants from Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic who arrived in this country with not much more than elementary school education. At a very young age Celia discovered her love for words. She found in words an ability to express the intricacies of growing up belonging to dual worlds. She has been writing poetry since she was 11 years old just because she has always felt it is a great way to paint a picture without a paintbrush.
The Oracle
by Adam Lars
I saw him from a mile away. He wore a gray sweater, a black skullcap, and baggy black jeans. His head twitched as he stood in line looking impatient with the slowness of the person in front of him. "Hurry up and get a damn chicken wing!" he yelled at the poor guy. Dave who was one of the volunteers told the aggitated man to calm down, but he became more aggressive. "Fuck you! I know you. You're the one who always brings them potatoe salad." Dave's face lit up and smiled. He was very proud of his potatoe salad. "It tastes like shit!" the man yelled at his face. This guy may be crazy, but he doesn't know that Dave doesn't fuck around when it comes to his potatoe salad. Next thing we knew Dave was moving like Bruce Lee about to execute a flying kick towards the man. I have never seen a 250-pound guy move with such agility before. We all had to jump on him, intercepting him in the air as he tried to lunge forward towards the homeless man. It looked like those scenes you see on the Animal Planet where a cheetah grabs an antelope in mid-air.
"Dave, get a hold of yourself. We're supposed to be helping them, not fight with them." I told him as I pressed my weight on his back. He nodded because he was too out of breath to say anything. We picked him up and he brushed the dirt off his sweater. He walked away fuming as he passed the man who just insulted his beloved potatoe salad. The homeless man had a wide smile across his face as if he was proud of causing Dave to lose his temper. Indeed he was.
"Hey, that was very rude man. He gives up alot of his free time in making that potatoe salad and comes here to help you guys. The least you can do is hold back on comments like that." I told the man in gray.
"Oh yeah? Well, we never asked for you little punks from the suburbs to help us out! You go home to your nice two-story houses at the end of the night." he said pointing at me and all of the other volunteers looking at him.
"We live this shit man! You are just a bunch of hippie kids who think they can make a difference." he said grabbing a chicken leg off the tray. He put it on his plate and walked off laughing, shaking head. I turned to look at Kate, who just shrugged her shoulders. It was my fourth time volunteering for the organization, but I have never seen that man before.
I found out about this place through a friend of mine who used to volunteer here before he moved to California to study at UCLA. I remember when I first volunteered here. The setting was not what I had expected. I've volunteered at homeless shelters before, usually during Thanksgiving and Christmas, but when I got to the address my friend gave me, I was surprised to find that they held it outside the downtown library, practically on the sidewalk. Every Thursday and Saturdays, you'll see a small gathering of homeless men and women mixing like a vodka and milk with middle-class college kids from the suburbs. It was a moving scene to watch at first, but after a while the idealism dies down.
"That guy's always like that." Jake told us as he picked up a crate full of leftover apples.
"He never really talks to anyone, he always sits at that table and eats by himself." he nodded towards the man eating his food quietly at a table near the front of the library. He looked peaceful eating, different from the way he acted before. Or maybe it just seemed that way, either way, I walked towards him to see if he was doing alright. "Dude, are you crazy? He's probably gonna pick a fight with you too." Jake said from behind me. "Nah, I think he's alright now. I'm just gonna have a little chat with him."
He didn't notice me approach him. He ate his food with patience, but with such concentration. I leaned over and waved my hand to try to catch his attention. "This tables taken kid. Fuck off." he said without losing rhythm as he cut a piece of meat with his plastic knife, not even bothering to look up at me.
"Well, too bad. It's public property." I sat down across from him and said nothing--waiting for him to finish his food. He continued eating, keeping his focus on the plate in front of him. When you hardly have anything to eat everyday of your life, food becomes sacred. Once he did finish, he gulped down his cup of coffee.
"Was it good?" I asked him
"The chicken I mean. I made that." He looked at me like I was retarded. "Well whoop-dee-fucking-doo." he said with an expression in his face that highlighted his sarcasm.
He got up and was prepared to walk away, but he stopped and patted down the pockets of his jeans, feeling for something. I already knew what he was looking for. I pulled out my box of Kools cigarettes, took two out, and held up one as I put the other between my lips. "A meals never complete without having one of these bad boys for dessert." I said. He turned around and looked at me. I think I might have even glimpsed a bit of a grin. I don't know if he did that because he knew I wasn't going to let him go that easily, or it was because of the cigarette I held in my hand. He took it from me and sat back down. I gave him a light and he inhaled heavily. "Menthol eh? Good choice." he said closing his eyes, letting the nicotine hit the nerves.
"You owe me a conversation now." I told him.
"Geez kid, when I was your age, I was going after the hunnies, not old men. What are you, a fag or something?" he said with the cigarette hanging between his lips.
"I'm not very good with the ladies. Maybe a pimp like yourself can give me a few pointers." I said acting stupid and innocent as if I still believed that girls carried cooties around. He seemed to have liked that fact that I called him a pimp, and I began to wonder if in fact he actually used to be one.
"Go to grocerie stores." he said. He noticed the puzzled look I gave him and went on. "Everyone's gotta eat right?" I nodded my head at the obvious fact. "Well, don't you need to buy food first?" I nodded again. "What I'm saying is, it's all about playing probability to your favor. Go to Wal-Mart and you're guaranteed to find a herd of pussy." I acknowledged his interesting insight and thought about it deeply, and realized that this guy knew very well what he's talking about.
"What else can you tell me?" I asked him
"Tell you what?"
"Anything. Anything I should know--"
"About life?" he said smiling. "Who do you think I am, the Dalai fuckin' Lama?"
"Who knows you could be the real incarnate."
"Listen, I'm not Buddha and I sure as hell don't have anything to tell you about life."
"Why not? I'm sure you've experienced more than I have."
"Why, because I'm a homeless bum? You think I'll give you my sob-story so you can feel good about yourself?" he said kind of agitatedly. For a second, I thought I might have pushed his button and he was gonna go off on me like he did with Dave. But he saw my uneasiness and he calmed down.
"Look son, I don't have anything to tell you about life, because as much as you think it's this universal thing where everybody sees, thinks, and feels the same." he hesitated for a while, took a drag off his cigarette, and rubbed his long gray beard with his thumb and index finger, thinking about what to say next. "That's all bullshit. You live life according to your rules. I can tell you where I came from, what I think about when I watch the sunrise, what I used to do for a living--" he stopped in his tracks once again, as if the last words he said triggered something inside of him. "I can tell you all of those things, wrap it up in a nice little package, put a ribbon on top, and give it to you as a present, and tell you here this is the meaning of life." He let out a couple of harsh sounding coughs, like an exhaust pipe from a ill-maintained car.
"I could tell you all that, but then I would be giving a you lies, because only you can interperet what life gives you. No one else."
"Yeah, I know."
I thought about what he said and I looked at the other volunteers talking in their own little circles. Like individual fortresses keeping the vagabonds out, only to throw food over the high walls hoping that somehow that would make a difference in the world. Have I been reading life the wrong way? For some reason, sitting there while the cold wind brushed across my back, I didn't feel the same anymore. My vision of the world had been shaken by a total stranger. I mean, what he just told me was not anything new to me. I've always believed and practiced individuality. My life is my life--right?
Somehow I feel mentally confined in the suburbs where the streets are clean, the lawns are trimmed perfectly, and the nights are quiet. Peaceful enough to have latenight conversations in the driveway without worrying about getting shot by stray bullets. I was raised to think that Harvard, or Princeton was the ultimate goal for a young person. Get your degree, smile at the flashing cameras, hug your proud parents, they buy you a new car, a penthouse in Manhattan, the whole shabang. That was the meaning of life for me; success and going to homeless shelters to volunteer just so I can feel better about myself, or at least feel less selfish.
The man must have noticed the change in my mood, as we sat in silence for a few minutes. I didn't notice at first, but he was looking at me, I looked up and catched his gaze, and he seemed to look at me with pity, as if I was the one who had the disadvantages in life.
"You in college?" he asked me.
"Yeah."
"What's your major?"
"Political science. Minor in economics." I responded.
"And what do you plan to do with that?"
"Become an economist. Help third-world countries navigate out of poverty. Help the governments get back on an equal playing field as the West's economy." I said it the way I've said the lines a thousand times, like a script. I remember when I first said the same answer to my girlfriend's parents, they were impressed, and I felt proud, full of self-worth. But now, the words feel hollow, void of meaning. He nodded his head, a smile cracked in his face, and out came a wheezing laugh.
"What's so funny about that?" I asked him.
"Kid kid. You're just like all of your little friends back there." he said looking at the other volunteers who were now packing up. "You guys are naive. Idealists! But that's okay, because you don't know how the system works."
"What system?"
"The world is run on systems, heirarchies, and powerful people govern those systems." he said as he took another drag from his cigarette. "You'll know when you get out there. You think you're in the real world right now, but you're in the fucking matrix."
"Who are you, Morpheus all of the sudden?" I retorted.
"Nah, I'm the fucking Oracle." he said with a sly grin stamped on his face.
He stood up and looked at the dispersing crowd of gypsies. His band of brothers and sisters, wearing ragged clothes and faces that have turned to stone because they no longer had the need for emotions. "But keep at it kid. You got the heart." he said as he took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it on to the ground. "Thanks for the food and the smoke." he said giving me a nod.
"No problem." I told him. "Thanks for the talk."
He didn't say anything. He just turned around and began walking away. I sat there waiting for some kind of heavenly beam to pick him up, but nothing came down. I just watched him walk down the street like a phantom. I never catched his name, but I guess that wasn't really important. He turned the corner and as he did, he walked right under the beam of a light post, and he was gone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adam Lars was a second-year student at the famous London School of Economics when he decided to take a break from the chaos of the university life to work on the many unfinished manuscripts he has in his laptop. He is also an avid chess player, which explains the unfinished manuscripts.
I saw him from a mile away. He wore a gray sweater, a black skullcap, and baggy black jeans. His head twitched as he stood in line looking impatient with the slowness of the person in front of him. "Hurry up and get a damn chicken wing!" he yelled at the poor guy. Dave who was one of the volunteers told the aggitated man to calm down, but he became more aggressive. "Fuck you! I know you. You're the one who always brings them potatoe salad." Dave's face lit up and smiled. He was very proud of his potatoe salad. "It tastes like shit!" the man yelled at his face. This guy may be crazy, but he doesn't know that Dave doesn't fuck around when it comes to his potatoe salad. Next thing we knew Dave was moving like Bruce Lee about to execute a flying kick towards the man. I have never seen a 250-pound guy move with such agility before. We all had to jump on him, intercepting him in the air as he tried to lunge forward towards the homeless man. It looked like those scenes you see on the Animal Planet where a cheetah grabs an antelope in mid-air.
"Dave, get a hold of yourself. We're supposed to be helping them, not fight with them." I told him as I pressed my weight on his back. He nodded because he was too out of breath to say anything. We picked him up and he brushed the dirt off his sweater. He walked away fuming as he passed the man who just insulted his beloved potatoe salad. The homeless man had a wide smile across his face as if he was proud of causing Dave to lose his temper. Indeed he was.
"Hey, that was very rude man. He gives up alot of his free time in making that potatoe salad and comes here to help you guys. The least you can do is hold back on comments like that." I told the man in gray.
"Oh yeah? Well, we never asked for you little punks from the suburbs to help us out! You go home to your nice two-story houses at the end of the night." he said pointing at me and all of the other volunteers looking at him.
"We live this shit man! You are just a bunch of hippie kids who think they can make a difference." he said grabbing a chicken leg off the tray. He put it on his plate and walked off laughing, shaking head. I turned to look at Kate, who just shrugged her shoulders. It was my fourth time volunteering for the organization, but I have never seen that man before.
I found out about this place through a friend of mine who used to volunteer here before he moved to California to study at UCLA. I remember when I first volunteered here. The setting was not what I had expected. I've volunteered at homeless shelters before, usually during Thanksgiving and Christmas, but when I got to the address my friend gave me, I was surprised to find that they held it outside the downtown library, practically on the sidewalk. Every Thursday and Saturdays, you'll see a small gathering of homeless men and women mixing like a vodka and milk with middle-class college kids from the suburbs. It was a moving scene to watch at first, but after a while the idealism dies down.
"That guy's always like that." Jake told us as he picked up a crate full of leftover apples.
"He never really talks to anyone, he always sits at that table and eats by himself." he nodded towards the man eating his food quietly at a table near the front of the library. He looked peaceful eating, different from the way he acted before. Or maybe it just seemed that way, either way, I walked towards him to see if he was doing alright. "Dude, are you crazy? He's probably gonna pick a fight with you too." Jake said from behind me. "Nah, I think he's alright now. I'm just gonna have a little chat with him."
He didn't notice me approach him. He ate his food with patience, but with such concentration. I leaned over and waved my hand to try to catch his attention. "This tables taken kid. Fuck off." he said without losing rhythm as he cut a piece of meat with his plastic knife, not even bothering to look up at me.
"Well, too bad. It's public property." I sat down across from him and said nothing--waiting for him to finish his food. He continued eating, keeping his focus on the plate in front of him. When you hardly have anything to eat everyday of your life, food becomes sacred. Once he did finish, he gulped down his cup of coffee.
"Was it good?" I asked him
"The chicken I mean. I made that." He looked at me like I was retarded. "Well whoop-dee-fucking-doo." he said with an expression in his face that highlighted his sarcasm.
He got up and was prepared to walk away, but he stopped and patted down the pockets of his jeans, feeling for something. I already knew what he was looking for. I pulled out my box of Kools cigarettes, took two out, and held up one as I put the other between my lips. "A meals never complete without having one of these bad boys for dessert." I said. He turned around and looked at me. I think I might have even glimpsed a bit of a grin. I don't know if he did that because he knew I wasn't going to let him go that easily, or it was because of the cigarette I held in my hand. He took it from me and sat back down. I gave him a light and he inhaled heavily. "Menthol eh? Good choice." he said closing his eyes, letting the nicotine hit the nerves.
"You owe me a conversation now." I told him.
"Geez kid, when I was your age, I was going after the hunnies, not old men. What are you, a fag or something?" he said with the cigarette hanging between his lips.
"I'm not very good with the ladies. Maybe a pimp like yourself can give me a few pointers." I said acting stupid and innocent as if I still believed that girls carried cooties around. He seemed to have liked that fact that I called him a pimp, and I began to wonder if in fact he actually used to be one.
"Go to grocerie stores." he said. He noticed the puzzled look I gave him and went on. "Everyone's gotta eat right?" I nodded my head at the obvious fact. "Well, don't you need to buy food first?" I nodded again. "What I'm saying is, it's all about playing probability to your favor. Go to Wal-Mart and you're guaranteed to find a herd of pussy." I acknowledged his interesting insight and thought about it deeply, and realized that this guy knew very well what he's talking about.
"What else can you tell me?" I asked him
"Tell you what?"
"Anything. Anything I should know--"
"About life?" he said smiling. "Who do you think I am, the Dalai fuckin' Lama?"
"Who knows you could be the real incarnate."
"Listen, I'm not Buddha and I sure as hell don't have anything to tell you about life."
"Why not? I'm sure you've experienced more than I have."
"Why, because I'm a homeless bum? You think I'll give you my sob-story so you can feel good about yourself?" he said kind of agitatedly. For a second, I thought I might have pushed his button and he was gonna go off on me like he did with Dave. But he saw my uneasiness and he calmed down.
"Look son, I don't have anything to tell you about life, because as much as you think it's this universal thing where everybody sees, thinks, and feels the same." he hesitated for a while, took a drag off his cigarette, and rubbed his long gray beard with his thumb and index finger, thinking about what to say next. "That's all bullshit. You live life according to your rules. I can tell you where I came from, what I think about when I watch the sunrise, what I used to do for a living--" he stopped in his tracks once again, as if the last words he said triggered something inside of him. "I can tell you all of those things, wrap it up in a nice little package, put a ribbon on top, and give it to you as a present, and tell you here this is the meaning of life." He let out a couple of harsh sounding coughs, like an exhaust pipe from a ill-maintained car.
"I could tell you all that, but then I would be giving a you lies, because only you can interperet what life gives you. No one else."
"Yeah, I know."
I thought about what he said and I looked at the other volunteers talking in their own little circles. Like individual fortresses keeping the vagabonds out, only to throw food over the high walls hoping that somehow that would make a difference in the world. Have I been reading life the wrong way? For some reason, sitting there while the cold wind brushed across my back, I didn't feel the same anymore. My vision of the world had been shaken by a total stranger. I mean, what he just told me was not anything new to me. I've always believed and practiced individuality. My life is my life--right?
Somehow I feel mentally confined in the suburbs where the streets are clean, the lawns are trimmed perfectly, and the nights are quiet. Peaceful enough to have latenight conversations in the driveway without worrying about getting shot by stray bullets. I was raised to think that Harvard, or Princeton was the ultimate goal for a young person. Get your degree, smile at the flashing cameras, hug your proud parents, they buy you a new car, a penthouse in Manhattan, the whole shabang. That was the meaning of life for me; success and going to homeless shelters to volunteer just so I can feel better about myself, or at least feel less selfish.
The man must have noticed the change in my mood, as we sat in silence for a few minutes. I didn't notice at first, but he was looking at me, I looked up and catched his gaze, and he seemed to look at me with pity, as if I was the one who had the disadvantages in life.
"You in college?" he asked me.
"Yeah."
"What's your major?"
"Political science. Minor in economics." I responded.
"And what do you plan to do with that?"
"Become an economist. Help third-world countries navigate out of poverty. Help the governments get back on an equal playing field as the West's economy." I said it the way I've said the lines a thousand times, like a script. I remember when I first said the same answer to my girlfriend's parents, they were impressed, and I felt proud, full of self-worth. But now, the words feel hollow, void of meaning. He nodded his head, a smile cracked in his face, and out came a wheezing laugh.
"What's so funny about that?" I asked him.
"Kid kid. You're just like all of your little friends back there." he said looking at the other volunteers who were now packing up. "You guys are naive. Idealists! But that's okay, because you don't know how the system works."
"What system?"
"The world is run on systems, heirarchies, and powerful people govern those systems." he said as he took another drag from his cigarette. "You'll know when you get out there. You think you're in the real world right now, but you're in the fucking matrix."
"Who are you, Morpheus all of the sudden?" I retorted.
"Nah, I'm the fucking Oracle." he said with a sly grin stamped on his face.
He stood up and looked at the dispersing crowd of gypsies. His band of brothers and sisters, wearing ragged clothes and faces that have turned to stone because they no longer had the need for emotions. "But keep at it kid. You got the heart." he said as he took one last drag from the cigarette and flicked it on to the ground. "Thanks for the food and the smoke." he said giving me a nod.
"No problem." I told him. "Thanks for the talk."
He didn't say anything. He just turned around and began walking away. I sat there waiting for some kind of heavenly beam to pick him up, but nothing came down. I just watched him walk down the street like a phantom. I never catched his name, but I guess that wasn't really important. He turned the corner and as he did, he walked right under the beam of a light post, and he was gone.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Adam Lars was a second-year student at the famous London School of Economics when he decided to take a break from the chaos of the university life to work on the many unfinished manuscripts he has in his laptop. He is also an avid chess player, which explains the unfinished manuscripts.
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