Asakiyume mita

(about half of these are real)

Netflix content notes

Peril
Language
Noteworthy soundtrack
Brief smoking
Introverted
Unstable
Suspenseful
Mutable
Provocative
Dizzying
Loneliness
Bravado
Last chances
Gritty
Barren
Fleeting
Gone

I'm in this issue of Not One of Us with a piece of very short flash fiction, "Freeing .33333..."

It's ironic, maybe, to write flash about a number that goes on forever, but like the narrator, I've always been fascinated by this endlessly repeating number, and a short form is as good as a long form, I suppose, to talk about something infinite.

There are several other offerings in this issue that I loved--noteworthy among them sovay's poem "Fair Exchange," about what the dead want. (You know it instinctively, but Sovay expresses it--and what the dead would pay to get it--with wrenching clarity.)

The poem "Catch the Bus," by Zhihua Wang, is light, humorous--but its theme is about trying to fit yourself in to a schedule where *you* are the piece that has to change; *you* are the one that must adapt, and that's also a theme in the story "Loneliness and Other Looming Things," by Devan Barlow, whose protagonist is psychologically incapable of tolerating an "upgrade" that everyone around her has made or is making. Like someone with a rotary-dial landline phone in the era of smartphones, she's isolated, but the solution being proposed may cost her her only human connection. There's beautiful language on dreams in this story:

There was a oconstant bristle at the edge of my mind, like I had to remember to tell someone something ... At random points throughout the day, I started laughing, as if I remembered something funny. But I never had any idea what the joke was.

In "A Million Wings Moving as One," by Jay Kang Romanus, a changeling who can take and shed an infinite number of forms tries to find a sense of self. These lines struck me:

Outside, the humans drift under its window in an endless river. The changeling watches them, envying their lack of choice.

The poem "Protest" by Rebekah Postupak achieves a giddy-but-grim change of perspective for both the narrator and the reader--powerful!

The remaining two stories, "The World Has Turned a Thousand Times" by CL Hellisen and "Where Dead Men Come to Die" by Ed Teja, have startlingly contrasting settings--the stark semi-desert of South Africa's Karoo region in Hellisen's tale and the tropical humidity of the town of Koh Kong, in Cambodia's Koh Kong Province, in Teja's. Both are stories of transformations of sorts, and self-discovery.

Not One of Us is that remarkable thing in this digital world, a paper zine. Some of my favorite writers, like Patricia Russo and my dad, have published in its pages. Information on buying single issues or subscriptions and on submitting to it is available HERE.

I have so many saved up for this! And I'm actually writing on a Wednesday. Wohoo, win condition!

What I've just finished

A Family of Dreamers, by Samantha Nock. radiantfracture put me onto this collection by quoting one of the poems. Samantha Nock is an indigenous poet, and her poems reflect that heritage, but also explore family relations, love, self doubt--you know: the stuff we write poetry about.

( Some quotes )

* * *

Ideias Para Adiar O Fim Do Mundo, by Ailton Krenak
This has also been translated into English (Ideas for Postponing the End of the World). Ailton Krenak is an indigenous activist from Brazil, of the Krenak people, and this very short book collects talks that he's given, including the title one. He's very, very good at reminding his listeners that there's more than one way of understanding things, more than one way of approaching problems, and that for some people, the end of the world has been happening for a long, long time. (My Goodreads review has quotes that give a feel for it)

* * *

Besty and Tacy Go over the Big Hill, by Maud Hart Lovelace
They do, and they discover a community of Syrian refugees. The more things change...

This story mulls over kings and queens in lots of different ways. Early on the girls write a letter to Alfonso XIII, who upon turning sixteen has become king of Spain. The girls tell him that they'd love to marry him but realize that, sadly, they can't, since they're not of royal blood (also they're only ten, but they don't mention that), but that nevertheless they wish him the best. And then at the end of the story they get a letter back from the royal secretary, telling them the king appreciates their thoughts! And I was thinking how much smaller the world was then--that girls could write a letter to the royal palace in Madrid, and that a palace secretary would actually answer! ... Well, assuming that that incident is based on something that actually happened in MHL's life--it might not be. But it's conceivably possible. Alfonso XIII came into his majority in 1902. Wikipedia tells me that in 1900, the human population was a much more intimate 1.6 billion. Not like our current 8 billion. Palace secretaries could write to little girls in Minnesota!

What I'm reading now

Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer. My approach to this has been very roundabout. I'm not a big fan of long books of serious essays, even when I should like them. So I started by just dipping in. But it's won me over, so I'm going to read it straight through.

* * *

Why Didn't You Just Leave, edited by Julia Rios and Nadia Bulkin. A collection of horror stories that answer the question of why people don't just leave the haunted place they're in. Excellent so far.

* * *

Lady Eve's Last Con, by Rebecca Fraimow. A rom-con romcom in SPACE that I've only just started but is highly delightful already, with lines like this:

Ever since we got in on the luxury-liner gambit, money had been dropping into our hands like coolant from a leaky ceiling

and

It wasn't so hard to get someone like Esteban to think that you were their romantic ideal; all you had to do was present an attractive outline and leave plenty of space, and they'd fill in the rest all by themselves.

I think I can see what the end state is going to be, but I am here for the ride!

Coming Soon
Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown, the next of the Betsy-Tacy books.

rachelmanija's great review of Goddess of Yesterday (by Caroline Cooney) made me want to read it too--I did, and I enjoyed it very much. It really truly felt like the story was being told to me by a young girl from Trojan War times. I liked Anaxanadra very much, liked how observant she was, how she learned quickly and worked for her own survival, and that she took a liking to--and then felt loyalty and concern for--the various people she met.

What had absolutely pushed me from "Hmmm, cool book; maybe one day I'll read it" to "I want to read this NOW" was the example Rachel gave of Anaxanadra's wonderment on first encountering a glass container, and I was rewarded with more encounters like that (first time encountering enough of something that you need to use the word "one thousand," first time encountering horses, etc). Even just her ordinary observations had a feel of ancient Greece to them that I loved, as when she describes the sound of water slapping the side of a boat like dogs drinking, or this, describing dolphins:

Dolphins swam alongside. Now and then they would leap out of the water and spin themselves like yarn.

And then radiantfracture posted a poem the other day, "Pahkwêsikan," by the poet Samantha Nock, that made me want to read the rest of the collection, the author's debut collection. It has a gorgeous cover:

( but the image is a little large, so under the cut it goes )

And now I have a copy!

Speaking of images, check out these great dusky swifts (Cypseloides senex), posted by Aves do Brasil, a bot that posts photos of birds of Brazil. Facebook says that the original photo was taken by Frodoaldo Budke.

( great dusky swifts )

With those intense, deep-set eyes, and clinging to the rock face like that, they seem like a pair of heroes: loyal siblings or friends, or intense lovers, out to redress a wrong. I want to write a story with them as the heroes ... maybe in human form--but that intensity!

I first came upon this poem in 2007; I love it. I shared it back at the time, but that was 16 years ago, so I'm sharing it again--this time with illustrations. (Some of them are click-through-able to the original person's photo on Flickr... others are just shamelessly ripped from stock photos and what-have-you.)

"A Love Letter" was originally published in a collection called Break the Mirror.

( A Love Letter, by Nanao Sakaki )

There's a woman from Timor-Leste I follow on Facebook, Esteviana Amaral, who shares beautiful, sometimes funny, sometimes touching reflections on daily life. Kirsty Sword Gusmão put me onto her with this video (in which you can hear Tetun spoken beautifully). Since then, I've been enjoying--and sometimes translating--her work. Here is one from last Thursday. (Her original post)


(The photo is the one Esteviana shared with the post)

Her words:

Iha momentu balu ita presiza tuur no haree de'it natureza halo nia servisu, udan monu ba rai, kalohan nakukun no loro-matan sa'e.

Momentu sira ne'e bele repete maibé kada minutu ne'ebé liu ho nia istória rasik. Husik natureza hala'o nia knaar no buka tuir ó-nia ksolok rasik.

My translation:

In some moments we need to sit and just watch nature doing her work, rain falling to the ground, dark clouds, and the sun rising.

These moments will repeat, but each minute passes with its own story. This self-same nature carries out her duties and seeks after your joy herself.

Kirsty liked my translation and shared it on her Facebook page!

A Twitter friend tweeted a post that said "Explaining a funeral to a 5 year old. He wants to know if the priest will 'do spells.'" She said in reply, "I would hope so!"

So I wrote this:

With this spell I do create
A chalice made of feathers
To hold your grief so softly
And uplift and honor it

and with *this* spell I do create
A lantern for the light
Of memories of the deceased
Carry it home with you
And may its shining comfort you


In other news, it's still snowing, and now the wind is whirling the snow around and carving sharp edges in it and hollowing out other parts, so I'm doing what I've always wanted to do: I've put some objects in the snow--a piece of wood and a plastic sign, plus a pile of shoveled snow, and I'm going to see how the wind makes the snow flow around them. Stay tuned for pictures, eventually.

My friend CE, who blogs over here, shared this breathtaking poem on Twitter:


Lê Vĩnh Tài | A FIELD OF INHUMANITY – BÀI TRƯỜNG CA VỀ CÁNH ĐỒNG BẤT NHÂN

It is very long and very intense, but as you read through it, you will see and hear how words and phrases and ideas, come up again and again in new contexts, like they do in a sestina, turned over and reinterpreted. Pain, rage, acquiescence, regret, bitterness, beauty, horror--clear eyes, clouded heart.

Here are a handful of the parts that jumped out at me:

When one has been bitten by a dog
Should one bite back
Especially when
It’s a little mad?

Yes. Then again probably no

...

Why do intellectuals refuse to sleep?
Even after they’ve taken in full
The thirty pieces of silver

...

Oh well, let your mind drift back into darkness
There, you can forget

...

While your wife and kids
Those who were fast enough
Escape to write down their life
Down where?

...

One half of the truth is not the truth
But half of the agony is half of the pain
And the poet’s blown up face
Gets blown up along with his beard
Except the poem couldn’t be blown up
Since it may possibly be, a choking hazard

...

I am also a poet
Not some kind of cathedral

I saw dreadlock, deadlock, and deadname in quick succession and started thinking about not hair or tangled traffic or trans rights, but about a dreadful lock, a lock that dies--is executed even. A dead lock. And I thought, how do you kill a lock?

Answer:

The key was turned
The bolt slid into place a final time
Then liquid copper was poured into the hole
--the whole plate melted, a metal smear—

Then prayers, candles, incense
No more will people pass through here

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osprey_archer posted a very fun, very short Valentine's extra for her novel Honeytrap, readily understandable even if you haven't read the novel. All you need to know is it's set in the 1950s, and the characters are a Soviet agent and an American agent who are working together (for reasons). It's a discussion of the capitalist nature of Valentine's Day as celebrated in the America. (Read it here!) And then, coincidentally, a friend linked me to this TikTok video where a woman talks about how capitalist Valentine's Day is, and then provides links to her free anticapitalist you-can-use-them-for-Valentine's-or-any-day cards. I liked "Workers are Billionaire Creators" best.

~ -------------- ~ ---------------------

I love this art, located in London, by Colombian street artist Stinkfish:



Detail:



(Source: Hooked: Street Art from London and beyond)

+ ------------ + ------------ + ----------------

I'm doing some pro bono work for a friend of one of my kids, who's written about the Titanic. I reached a passage where it talks about the SS Californian, which was very close but didn't render assistance, and he describes how it seemed to the Californian that this ship--they didn't know what ship it was--that they had noticed was moving away from them, getting smaller, when really what was happening was it was sinking. It made me think of that famous poem by Stevie Smith, "Not Waving but Drowning.

* --------- * --------------* ------------------*

Well that would be a bad note to end on! So some light humor. Someone used Google translate to translate a packet of Chinese rice crackers and got this:


(Twitter source)

One of my kids retweeted it with "tag yourself"

So go ahead: Who are you?

I have a writer friend who's had experience with incarceration, and sometimes she puts that in what she writes. She posted this to FB this morning and gave me permission to share. It says everything you need to know about imprisonment, abuse of power, and resistance in under a hundred words. And the way she lived that metaphor...

Flashback- I decorated my cell once with paper butterflies I colored myself. I made them 3D so their wings stuck out and appeared real. A guard walked by and was not impressed by my art, said it was contraband. He told me to take them down. I argued passionately that they were my family and were supporting me because I was in a cocoon myself. He wrote me a ticket. I earned 115 tickets that year.

--Sonia Mendez

Earn your tickets, everyone.