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Caroline Leavitt interviews Harriet Levin Millan...



Harriet Levin Millan talks about her profound novel-based-on-a-true-story, How Fast Can You Run, about a South Sudan refuge searching for the mother he was separated from when he was five.

“The best war novel told from a young boy’s perspective since Jerzy Kozinski’s The Painted Bird.”

—Nyoul Lueth Tong, author of There is a Country: New Writing from the New Country of South Sudan

Prepare to be amazed. When One Book, One Philadelphia asked author and Drexel University professor Harriet Levin Millan to choose ten of her undergraduate creative writing students to interview ten South Sudanese refugees for a special One Book writing project, she met Michael Majok Kuch, who became the subject of her novel. . Kuch survived the torching of his village in South Sudan, and was separated from his mother when he was only five. His quest to be reunited with her, and the plight of the refuge is both profound and moving. Thank you so much Harriet, for being here.

I always say every book starts with a yearning. What was yours?

My yearning was for Michael Majok Kuch, the S. Sudanese national, I based my novel on, to see his mother. They had been separated since Michael was five-years-old and their village was attacked in the middle of the night and they got separated. So by the time I met him, when he was a senior in college, he hadn’t seen her for nearly 22 years. [more…]

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    • The Vale of Cashmere

    • by Sean Elder

      green forest

      This story first appeared in Voice from the Planet, FREE from March 30 – April 3, 2017 at Amazon Kindle US, and Kindle UK among others.


      Truth was, she used to be able to organize her thoughts, until Floyd retired. Now he was always hanging around talking to her, asking what she was doing. Every time he went out, which wasn’t often enough for her taste, he would ask her if she needed anything and then look angry if she did. Sometimes he’d look angry if she didn’t. Now she looked for errands for him, just to get a moment’s peace. When she sent him off for milk this morning she could have lived without it. But she couldn’t have stood listening to him complain about the bus ride to Atlantic City before it happened, not non-stop for the next two hours.

      “You’re creating your future,” she told him. “Whatever you’re thinking and feeling, that becomes your reality.”

      “Don’t give me that shit,” he’d said, putting on his coat and hat. He had been wearing that same damned hat with the stingy brim so long it had come back in style.

      “It’s the law of attraction,” she’d continued. “You can deny it all you want but that don’t mean it’s not true. “Everything coming into your life you are attracting into your life. You’re like a magnet.”

      “Well, this magnet’s going to attract some milk,” he’d said before going out the door.

      He had made fun of her ever since she first heard Oprah talking about The Secret but deep down she thought that maybe he believed her. Or would, if he would just give it a try. He would come home so angry about something that happened out there – the security guy asleep in the chair, or someone who wouldn’t give his seat up on the subway – and she would tell him, “Every bad thing that comes into your life, you make happen.”

      Sometimes that really made Floyd angry. “Is that right? Every bad thing? I made happen every bad thing that came into my life, Marcy?” He would tower over her, breathing heavily, staring at the top of her lacquered hair until she was silent.

      She looked closely at the big digits on the clock by the bed. It was almost 8:30 and she still had not done her makeup. From the drawer in the nightstand on her side of the bed she looked for her own pill organizer and then realized she had already taken it out. She put it under the light, right beside that picture of her two boys, smiling in the lap of a black Santa, and looked at Wednesday. There were still pills in the morning box but the evening box was empty. Maybe she took the evening pills by mistake. Not that it mattered ‘cause they were basically the same. Or maybe she hadn’t filled the PM part.

      Looking at the rainbow colored compartments (Wednesday was green, Thursday red) she thought of Wilson, who had the hardest time with his R’s when he was little – “Weeding Wainbow,” he would say about his favorite show, and his brother would laugh at him. She felt overcome for a moment and then heard her husband’s keys in the door.

      She took the morning pills, four altogether, as Floyd shouted at her from the kitchen.

      “Do you know how much they wanted for a half-gallon of milk?” She imagined his face as he said the price and the way he would look at her afterwards. He might be looking that way right now, even though she wasn’t there.

      “Cost of everything is going up,” she yelled back. Then she stood and headed for the bathroom. “I got to get a move on.”

      “Ain’t you even going to drink your milk?” She heard him swear as she closed the bathroom door.

      The bus driver turned out to be some white guy who’d been sleeping in the back while people waited outside. The whole bus was talking about it, even after they got out of the Holland Tunnel and were getting on the turnpike, people tisking and hmm-hmming until Floyd wanted to yell, “Who told you to stand out there in the first place? It’s not even cold.” But he kept quiet and sat by a window, alone thank you very much, though Tommy insisted on sitting right in front of him, while Marcy huddled on the other side with a bunch of ladies. They outnumbered the men five to one anyway; he let Tommy represent, going back and forth across the aisle like some congressman making a deal. Each time he went over to the ladies he would say something so low that Floyd couldn’t hear and they would all laugh and holler.

      “I think it’s about time for some music,” Tommy said after one of his sorties. He had a gym bag with him that also said Mets on it, and from it he pulled a boom box that he tried to balance on the seatback in front of him. He pushed play and Johnnie Taylor started in on “Who’s Making Love” and the ladies all laughed, even though the sound was kind of wobbly. From the front of the bus the driver said something, they could see him looking at them in the rear view mirror, but no one tried to hear him. In fact Tommy stood up, with the boom box on his shoulder, and started to shake it in the aisle, which made the driver get on the mike.

      “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to sit down.” He had some kind of accent, Russian or something, but no one really paid him any mind.

      The hits kept coming; it must have been some kind of collection since Floyd never heard a deejay. Tommy jammed the boom box between the headrest and the window so it wouldn’t fall down and turned around to look at Floyd, but not before looking at the driver, who had his eyes on the road again.

      “How ‘bout a little taste?” Tommy said, taking a half-pint in a brown bag from the pocket of his jacket.

      “Too early for me,” Floyd said, looking out the window. To him it always looked like New Jersey was halfway through being torn down.

      Across the aisle Marcy was in the middle of a conversation with the other ladies but she didn’t feel quite right. It started as soon as she left the building; she had picked out a brooch to go with her blue blouse, a little gold tree with red apples on it, but she had left it sitting in front of the mirror. Now she felt naked, all that blue stretching out below her chin like an empty ocean almost and she felt like she was being pulled back from drowning each time one of them stopped talking. That meant somebody was supposed to say something, you were supposed to jump in like it was a game of double-Dutch.

      “What I value most is the privacy,” Marcy said, but no one answered. She had a feeling she had said that before. The topic was assisted living and how to know when you needed it.

      “Until you wake up privately dead,” said the lady in the Kente cloth. Marcy didn’t remember meeting her before, a friend of Helen’s was how she was introduced, but she didn’t like her now. She had these gray and white streaks in her hair, extensions by the look of it, but it reminded Marcy of mud. Besides she was probably the youngest woman of the bunch, what was she talking about dying for?

      “My boy checks in on us every night,” said Marcy and immediately wondered why she had. It wasn’t true. Most times she had to call Eric and he never sounded too happy to hear from her. He did come to visit though, once a month at least. They saw less of him after his divorce, though you’d think it would be the other way around.

      “Where are we?” she said suddenly, looking out the window. Everything looked the same.

      “You keep asking that,” the lady in the Kente cloth said, or maybe she said. Marcy wasn’t looking at her and the music Tommy was playing made her feel lost.

      “Sending this one out for all you ladies,” said Tommy, like he was some deejay, and they all laughed but Marcy didn’t think it was funny. It was that song about sitting on a park bench that always made her sad. “I see her face everywhere I go/on the street and even at the picture show/have you seen her?”

      There was a hospital up there high on a hill and for a second she felt that the bus was going to take off and fly straight up to its doors. She closed her eyes and felt herself rise.

      They parked in the lot of the Showboat casino. Though they could have gone anywhere they wanted, the thirty odd passengers that disembarked made for the Showboat as if summoned, shuffling and limping toward the entrance in a broken conga line.

      “No one says we got to go to this casino,” Floyd said to the crowd of ladies leading the way.

      “The Showboat has a Mardi Gras theme,” said the lady in the Kente cloth. She turned around to give Floyd the fisheye, pulling down her glasses as she did. “Besides, we got coupons for the Showboat.”

      He fell in line sullenly beside Tommy who offered him another drink. Floyd took a swallow this time without pulling down the brown paper to see what it was. It tasted like mouthwash.

      “Jesus, what the hell you drinking?”

      “Little peppermint schnapps.” Tommy tried to slap Floyd on the back but the big man danced away, handing the bottle back as he moved.

      “What she mean by a ‘Mardi Gras theme,’ anyway?” Floyd said.

      Tommy shrugged. “As long as they got free drinks and blackjack I don’t much care.”

      Seagulls screamed overhead. Floyd saw his reflection scowling in the window of a parked Humvee. He went to New Orleans during Mardi Gras when he was in the Navy, how many years ago? He got lost and someone stole his wallet. A man dressed as a woman tried to put beads around his neck, he remembered. You could have your Mardi Gras.

      Marcy was among the first of the women to enter the casino and the air conditioning hit her like a cold wave. “Good thing I remembered my shawl!” she said but no one answered. The music and the sound of the slot machines, dinging and ringing with sirens going off every five minutes as if some crime was being committed, swallowed her voice.

      Marcy had thought to bring rolls of quarters and silver dollars. While the other ladies were getting change she was already pouring her silver into a red plastic cup provided to her by a girl in the shortest skirt she had ever seen.

      “You must be freezing!” Marcy said but the girl didn’t seem to hear her. Maybe she just got tired of people trying to talk to her.

      The slots area had thousands of machines and at noon it was already half filled, mostly old timers like her and Floyd. He and Tommy had set off in the other direction like there was a sign saying ‘Men, That Way.’ The carpets were in a pattern of red and orange and gold that reminded her of a kaleidoscope and the ceiling was made up to look like stained glass, though she knew real stained glass when she saw it and this wasn’t it. She felt like if she didn’t sit down she might just fall into the colors. She sat down at a quarter machine and began feeding it. She didn’t know where the other ladies had gone and looking over her shoulder left her none the wiser.

      “Y’all gonna have to find me,” she said and as if summoned a different lady in a short skirt appeared.

      “How you doing today?” she said. She had a tray filled with drinks and a notepad tucked into her belt. “Can I get you something to drink?”

      “Well I suppose you can!” Marcy turned in her chair to show her appreciation. “My name’s Marcy by the way, I come here from Brooklyn with a bunch of folks from my church group.”

      “Now isn’t that nice? My name’s Kim Sue. What can I get you?”

      Marcy smiled and opened her mouth. But she could not think of the names of any drinks, not just the fancy ones but any drink. She felt a trickle of sweat run down her back underneath her blouse.

      “It’s funny,” she said, embarrassed. “My mind’s just a blank today.”

      “Sure, no problem!” Kim Sue smiled back at her like one of those Chinese dolls, her name right there on her badge. “We have beer and wine and soda and mixed drinks.” She kept smiling at Marcy and continued. “I could make you a nice white wine spritzer, if you like.”

      “Oh, that sounds nice,” said Marcy, and it did sound nice, like a sprinkler in the summer time, the kind the boys used to play in. Kim Sue left and Marcy returned to the machine. Cherries and plums rolled past, never stopping at the same time.

      Eric used to chase Wilson through the sprinklers in the park and sometimes when Marcy wasn’t looking he would hold his little brother down and try to pull off his shorts in front of all the other children. She would get so mad at him, always teasing like that, knowing it would make Wilson cry and come looking for her, but she had a job then, looking after a little white boy named Oskar whose parents lived in Park Slope and worked all the time. Oskar’a parents didn’t mind too much when she brought her boys with her when she took him to the park. “As long as you remember,” the father said, “that Oskar is your first priority.”

      Well of course he is, mister doctor man! Why would my own flesh and blood come before your little prince? Good gracious, the things that man would say. If the wife heard him she would weigh in and try to soften the blow. “What my husband means is that we don’t want you to get too distracted. Three children is a handful.”

      Now that was the kind of thing only a white person would say. Where she came from three children was just getting started, even if she was done after Wilson, something her own mother could never understand.

      “Oh, don’t worry, ma’am,” Marcy would say. “I won’t ever let Oskar out of my sight.”

      All these people thinking someone was going to steal their child then, like the whole country had gone crazy. Soon they’d be putting their pictures on milk cartons and billboards and on TV during the news – “Have you seen Brandon?” Usually white kids. If a black kid went missing generally people know who took him.

      “Here you go, ma’am.”

      Kim Sue was back with her drink. It was in a big plastic cup with a straw that went in curlicues, like a roller coaster, like this was for a child. She started fishing in her coin cup.

      “Drinks are complimentary, ma’am.”

      Like I didn’t know that. She pulled out a Susan B. Anthony and put it on her tray. “That’s for you,” she said.

      “Very nice of you, ma’am. And if you need anything else you just let me know.”

      She turned to leave and Marcy was afraid to see her go. “Kim Sue, it’s like your momma gave you two names.”

      “Kim is my family name. Family name comes first in Korean.”

      “Is that right?” said Marcy. “Well I think family should come first, don’t you?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Marcy thought that was something else she should write in her book but realized that she hadn’t brought it with her, and then forgot what she had said. “But they probably don’t spell it like that in Korea, do they? The Sue, I mean.”

      “No, ma’am, we have a different alphabet.”

      “Now isn’t that something?”

      She was balancing a tray full of drinks while she talked to Marcy so she let her go, disappearing into the big Tiffany lamp around them. A band was playing Dixieland and Marcy strained her eyes to see them. The music seemed to be coming from everywhere at once, “When the Saints Come Marching In.”

      “Let me tell you another,” she said, sipping on her drink. The lady at the machine next to her looked at Marcy and then moved away, taking her quarters with her. She watched as the drink spun up the straw when she sucked. Here we go loop de loop.

      Sometimes Eric would help her push the stroller as they went around the park, and Wilson would run so far ahead she would shout after him. “Don’t go where I can’t see you!” she’d holler, and Oskar, too big to be pushed around in a stroller, would try and stand up and yell after her. “Go where I can’t see you!”

      Wilson would hide like that at home as well; hide so good she couldn’t find him sometimes. They were living in Prospect-Lefferts, more house than they needed but you could afford those big limestone buildings then even on a Con Ed salary and Wilson would go into different rooms and be so quiet that she would get hysterical, be practically beside herself by the time her husband got home. Then they would hear him laughing. “Got you!” he would say and emerge from the cupboard or from behind the sideboard and Floyd would get so mad. That one time he came out of her closet wearing her bra and Floyd just about went crazy; took off his belt and chased him.

      She put in a coin and pulled the lever: a watermelon; a bell; the number seven in gold.

      “What numbers are you playing today?”

      She turned her head but nobody was there. Who had spoken? Just turning her head made the colors around her move and when she looked at the floor she saw the pattern there was moving too. It was like a flying carpet, the Vale of Cashmere –

      The Vale of Cashmere! That was the name of that strange corner of the park where she took the boys now and then. They were getting older; other boys took the place of Oskar, and Eric got too big to want to be with them. But Wilson kept her company as she made the rounds, bought them ice cream and wiped their sticky hands. People used to call it The Swamp and there was a muddy pond okay and some hanging trees.

      “How come you don’t play with boys your own age?” one of the kids had asked him once.

      “I just like to help my momma,” he’d said.

      He was the one who found out the real name of The Swamp, checked an old book out of the library and showed her on the map. There was a poem that went with it and Wilson stood up by the pond and put one finger in the air as he read: “Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere/With its roses the brightest the earth ever gave?”

      Another babysitter saw them by the pond once and came over to warn them. “You shouldn’t be down in there,” she said, afraid to come too close with her stroller in front of her. “They say men get together down there.”

      And after that Marcy noticed them, lurking about, standing in the trees. Once when she came down with Wilson and a stroller two men ran out, going in different directions.

      She didn’t think about it again for years, until Wilson was grown and still living at home, and he came back one night that first time with his face all bloody, drunk or high on something and smiled at her, blood on his teeth.

      “Hey, Momma, I been to the Vale of Cashmere!”

      That’s when Floyd said no more.

      “What numbers are you playing today?”

      She turned and the colors whooshed like a scarf being wrapped around her head. She saw her this time, a little woman, no bigger than a dragonfly like the ones the boys chased in the park, Wilson would put them in a jar with holes punched in the top, while Eric tried to cover it up with his hand so they would smother.

      “I’m looking for three sevens,” Marcy said to the dragonfly woman. “Are there some other numbers to play?”

      “That is the question, isn’t it?” said the faerie. “Are there other numbers to play?”

      And then she flew away, just like a little hummingbird, and Marcy got up to follow her, passing into the pattern of colors and leaving her cup of coins behind.

      Floyd went through all his money the first hour. Not all his money but all the money he’d meant to spend, the money he put in his shirt pocket, seemed to fly off the table. Dealer beat him every time: if Floyd had 18, the dealer had 19; if Floyd sat on a 19, the dealer hit him with two bricks.

      “I guess this lady feels like she has to show us what a blackjack looks like,” said Tommy, when the dealer drew her third in ten minutes. She apologized to them both, even though they didn’t tip her, and Tommy’s luck was better than hers: He doubled down twice and made a hundred bucks in the blink of an eye. All Floyd could do, once he had spent the money he had earmarked for this outing, was sit there and simmer in his resentment while Tommy’s chip pile grew.

      That was when Helen, the lady in the purple pantsuit, came and asked if he knew where Marcy was.

      “I thought she was with you,” said Floyd. It came out like an accusation.

      “Well, we agreed to meet for lunch at three,” she said, “but then nobody could find Marcy. We figured maybe you two went off together.”

      And that’s how well you know us, Floyd thought. “Maybe she just went off to another casino by herself,” he said. Even though he was losing, and wasn’t even playing at the time, he didn’t want to have to leave his spot and go look for his wife. “There’s no law says we got to stay here.”

      “Blackjack,” said the dealer, flipping another ace.

      But after a minute he did get up to look, as he knew he would, leaving Tommy, who still had a hot hand and no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about.

      “Did you try the ladies room?” he asked Helen.

      “That was one of the first places we looked. They have sofas in there, you know.” She paused. “Do you think we should call security?”

      The suggestion made his blood pressure rise. “No, I don’t think we should call security. Christ sake, grown woman goes off for a few minutes and you want to call the cavalry?”

      “Does she have a cell phone?”

      “Our son gave her one but she couldn’t figure out how to use it.” This was literally half true: Eric had given them each one last Christmas, and neither of them could figure out how to use it. By the time Floyd got the hang of it he realized that the only person he would call was his wife, which was kind of stupid since he saw her all the time anyway.

      They looked all the places that they had already looked and the lady in the Kente cloth joined them, acting more concerned that Floyd felt. “We need a system,” she said, as they circled the room for the second time. The place was more crowded than ever and Floyd could hardly hear what she was saying. “How about I go stake out the buffet and you stay here?” she suggested to Helen.

      “How ‘bout I go stake out the buffet?” Helen said. “I haven’t had lunch yet.”

      Floyd said they could both go feed themselves and take their time doing it; Marcy would turn up. He stood like a sentinel beneath the bells and sirens of the Mardi Gras slots, scowling most of the time. He hated slot machines; there was no sport in it, as he often told his wife. Blackjack at least you were playing the odds. Slots to him was just dumb luck, like a rabbit betting it wouldn’t get run over when it ran across the road. Twice he thought he saw his wife, and each time he took pleasure in anticipating just how much grief he was going to give her. But each time he was wrong.

      By four o’clock they were back together, Tommy too, and they began to set out in search parties. They were a small group: most of the travelers didn’t want to leave their stations, since the bus was scheduled to leave at six and this whole business had already cut into their time as it was. The lady in the Kente cloth, who finally introduced herself as Niobe, took charge. She contacted the hotel security, who seemed to have some experience with old folks wandering off, and as the witching hour neared, and the day-trippers started heading back toward the bus, she went out and argued with the bus driver, who was pretty adamant about leaving on time.

      “You can’t just go off and leave an old lady alone,” she scolded him. The engine was already running, gently shaking the bus, while the AC gusted out the door in heavy welcoming breaths.

      “I won’t be leaving her alone,” the driver said. “I will be leaving you to find her.”

      He agreed to wait as they made one last search. A handful of them fanned out, going to neighboring casinos and restaurants, off the boardwalk and into the side streets. Floyd couldn’t help but think that Marcy was messing with him the whole time, and when he saw the impatient faces of the other folks on the bus – they’d lost their money and had their fill, they just wanted to go home – he couldn’t help but side with them.

      Most of the people he saw as he wandered were wearing shorts and T-shirts. Used to be people would get dressed up to go someplace. And when did everybody get so fat? Walking down the boardwalk, bag of French fries in your hand, what did you expect? The new motto for the city was “Always Turned On,” which he found kind of creepy. There was nothing that he saw that turned him on.

      Doors were open, air conditioning blasting out, cooling nothing. Floyd took to popping into places and doing a quick look around, not even asking half the time if they’d seen anyone who looked like his wife. One, they couldn’t hear you with all that noise and two, half of them couldn’t speak English.

      “You seen an old black lady?” he shouted at one girl scooping ice cream. Her nails were so long he figured they might end up in somebody’s cone. “Blue shirt, about this high?” She stared at him like he was the one with the language problem.

      He kept walking. Going in and out of the summer sun was making him dizzy, to say nothing of thirsty. He wished for the first time that Tommy was with him. That man would always stop for a drink. He saw people in those rolling chairs, being pushed by young people, girls sometimes. And you wonder why you so fat?

      Down at one end of the boardwalk he found what looked like a real bar. The crowd had trickled off as the sun sank lower in the sky. Go on, get out of here. A lot of good you been. Floyd ducked inside and felt the rivers of sweat roll out from under his hat and chill on his face and neck. His glasses steamed as he took a seat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. He perched on the stool and looked up at the game on TV. The waitress brought him his drink and man did that taste good. No skimping on the gin, either. He forgot to ask her about Marcy. His wallet was bothering him, he felt like he was balancing on it. When she asked him if he wanted to start a tab he simply nodded.

      “You got a phone?” She pointed to an old-fashioned booth in the back, kind Superman used to change in. The place was filling up, young couples waiting for dinner. Went back to the hotel to put your dress shorts on? Once inside the paneled wood booth he forgot who he was going to call. Eric, right. He searched the scraps of paper in his wallet for the number he never had cause to memorize and let it ring, go to voicemail, and then dialed again.


      “This ain’t no telemarketer.”

      “Hey, Pop.” He did not sound happy to hear from him and Floyd had already put enough change in the machine so he cut straight to the point.

      “We in Atlantic City and your mother’s gone missing.” He backtracked from there, explaining the whole afternoon in greater detail than Eric needed, but never did his son sound any more excited than Floyd felt. He asked the obvious questions – had they called the police? Who else was looking?

      “Did she have her cell phone?” he asked, pointedly.

      “That’s why I was calling,” Floyd said. “I figured maybe she’d called you.”

      Eric was silent, and Floyd knew that he knew he was lying. He imagined him at home, still in his work clothes, the sound on the TV muted, his eyes on the game. From his perch in the booth Floyd could see the TV over the bar. Jeter was trying to steal.

      “I’m sure she’ll turn up, Pop. I mean, where’s she gonna go?”

      “I know that.”

      “You got your cell phone with you? So I can call you if she does?”

      Floyd muttered something and got off the phone. That boy would go to his grave asking about those damn phones. He should just wrap them up and give them back to him for Christmas. Turn ‘em into salt-and-pepper shakers.

      When he got back to his seat at the bar Jeter got picked off and he ordered another drink. Now they could send the search party out for him. The tumblers were tall and when he turned in his seat he found he had company. Big old white dude with long hair and a pointed beard. He was sipping a Budweiser longneck and looking at the screen. His arms were covered in tattoos; dragons, snakes and skulls disappeared into his shirtsleeves.

      “Fuckin’ Yankees,” he said and turned to look at Floyd. “Nice hat.”

      Floyd turned to face his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “You wouldn’t believe how long I had this hat,” he said.

      “There isn’t much I wouldn’t believe,” the man said.

      They got to talking. Turned out he worked in a tattoo parlor on the boardwalk, which explained all the ink. Half way through his second drink and Floyd was feeling generous in his opinions.

      “Back in the day,” he said, “man had a tattoo it meant he’d been someplace. In the service, in the joint, you know.”

      “I hear you,” the man said. “These days it just means you been to the mall.” He drained his beer and held up the empty. “Buy you a drink?”

      “Let me buy you a drink,” said Floyd, and pulled out the fat wallet that had been giving him such a pain and laid it on the counter. Soon he had the pictures out and was showing him snaps of Eric, bragging on his job even if he wasn’t exactly sure what he did. Then one of the whole family, when everyone was young.

      “Where’s your other boy?” the stranger asked.

      Floyd made a face like he was sucking on a lime. “Wilson got killed in a hold-up ten years ago,” he said.

      “Oh, man, I am sorry. They catch the guy who did it?”

      “No, it was in Prospect Park one night. Lot of crime in there.”

      “That’s why I could never live in the city,” the man said, which struck Tommy as funny. Most people would be scared of him, even in Brooklyn.

      “So what happens when folks get old?” said Floyd, changing the subject. “Maybe they don’t want all those tattoos any more.”

      “Shit, you don’t have to wait ‘til your old to regret something stupid you did.” The man laughed and Floyd got a glimmer of a gold tooth in his head. “People come in all the time wanting to have tattoos taken off, usually the name of some girl that don’t love them anymore.”

      “Can you do it?”

      “Sure,” the man said. “Hurts like hell and costs twice as much. But we can do it. Easier just to change it, though.”

      “How do you mean?”

      “Well, there was this one girl who loved a guy named Chris and had it tattooed on her ass. Until she found Jesus and then we just added a ‘T’.”

      He didn’t smile at first and it took Floyd a minute to figure it was a joke. He smiled first. “Hey, I got one,” he said. The stranger’s eyes gleamed in anticipation. “There was this guy who loved this old girl so much he had her name tattooed on his Johnson.”

      “Now that’s gotta hurt!”

      “Hell, yeah.” Floyd wiped his mouth. “Then they broke up, you know, and soon he started missing her real bad. So he went all over looking for her, from Wisconsin all the way down to Jamaica. Then he’s in the bathroom one day and he looks over and he sees this other guy’s dick.” He stopped for a minute. The stranger kept staring at him. “Now I can’t remember that girl’s name.”

      “Is it important?”

      “Yeah, it’s the whole punch line.”

      “Uh, oh. Better have another drink.”

      He felt flushed and excused himself to go to the bathroom. There he stared straight ahead at the wall and read all the graffiti as if looking for a message. And by the time he got back to the bar he was not surprised to see the stranger was gone and with him his wallet though all Floyd could feel was a keen sense of disappointment: He remembered the end of the joke now. He had remembered that old girl’s name.


      voice from the planet

      ‘Vale of Cashmere’ was first published by Harvard Square Editions in Voice from the Planet, FREE from March 30 – April 3, 2017 at Amazon Kindle US, and Kindle UK among others. Sean Elder’s writing has appeared in the New York Times Magazine, National Geographic, New York Magazine, Salon, Slate, Vogue, Elle, Men’s Journal, Men’s Health, O: The Oprah Magazine, Gourmet, Food & Wine, Details and many other publications. The essay he contributed to the collection of men’s writings The Bastard On the Couch (Morrow, 2004) was reprinted on three continents; his essay on ecstasy, included in the collection of drug writings entitled White Rabbit (Chronicle Books, 1995) was called “seminal” by Granta; and a piece he wrote about being a stay-at-home dad for Oprah was included in her best of O collection, Live Your Best Life (Oxmoor, 2005). He has co-authored several books, including Websites That Work with designer Roger Black (Adobe Press, 1997) and Mission Al Jazeera with former Marine captain Josh Rushing (Palgrave, 2007). He also works as a book doctor and helped edit the forthcoming Making Rounds with Oscar by Dr. David Dosa (Hyperion, 2010). He lives in Brooklyn, New York with his wife and daughter.

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    • All at Once: Excerpt of the Novel

    • I step onto a wide stone platform surrounded by water and lie on my stomach to peer down over the edge. At my approach, tiny fish scatter like drops of colored light; crabs pause, wary, then scuttle along the sides of the basin, stuffing their mouths as fast as they can with alternate pincers. After a while, a kind of brown finger wriggles out from the shadows. Another one emerges, then two more, and finally the bulbous body of an octopus comes into view. It skims along until the water is too shallow then starts to walk, using its tentacles as legs. When the water gets deeper it pushes off against the sandy bottom to glide, once more, just beneath the surface. It circles round and round my platform.

      aao cover

      My back begins to prickle, and I realize I’ll be burnt to a crisp if I don’t find shelter pretty soonthe ocean breeze masks the sun’s virulence.

      Standing up makes me momentarily dizzy. The tide has gone out, uncovering rocks studded with barnacles or slick with thick green hair. I head back toward the flat sand and continue walking, looking for a place to rest. I’ve just about resigned myself to the idea of a plastic chair, when I spot a barraca that’s not open for business. The beach in front of it is empty, the small structure shuttered; its thatched roof casts a nice, wide stripe of shade onto the sand. Gratefully, I set up camp, taking out the water and crackers I brought, spreading out my towel to sit on, and leaning against the barraca wall with the empty backpack in between for cushioning. A sigh of relief.

      The ocean is now more white than blue. At the horizon, a wavering smudge might be a cruise ship or an oil rig. The great mass of water is barely disturbed by shifting waves, fretful and sluggish like a dog settling down to sleep. There’s an occasional bloom of white spray when a wave breaks against rock; wisps of cloud trail across the sky. I yawn, lie down on the towel, and close my eyes.

      Now the landscape is reduced to the rustle of wind in the palm thatch, the faint piping of a distant bird, and the dull roar of the ocean. I stretch my arms and let them flop back down. Rolling my head slowly from side to side to loosen the tension in my neck, I notice that this movement causes the pitch of the ocean to vary ever so slightly. Intrigued, I try it a few more times, just to make sure.

      There’s a lesson in that, I reflect: reality changes according to your viewpoint. I roll my head once more from side to side then lie still again, listening to the tiny, ceaseless fluctuations within the monotone.

      An insect lands on my footwithout opening my eyes I flex my toe to chase it away, and realize that the gesture produced an infinitesimal shift in the ocean sound. Bizarre! I can understand the position of my head influencing what I hear, but the position of my toe? (more…)

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    Her Majesty?


    The passing of a fellow human is always a grim
    Ask not for whom the bell tolls!
    Is it any different with a so-called ‘queen’?
    What is a queen, anyhow?
    It beats me.

    Let’s call her Liz, and it makes far more sense.
    Excise the mystique.
    And one can then mourn her passing, like any other amongst us.
    I am sorry Liz is no more.
    Her family must be in some distress.

    The irony is that such institutions yet thrive, even today, squarely in the heartland of the various Western empires, despite the tendentious, high artifice of ‘democracy’.
    Not to mention a hereditary peerage!

    Per capita, these so-called royals must rake in a regal chunk of the public purse, even as 1 out of every 3 Brit children struggles in poverty.
    Do they possess a conscience?, one wonders.
    Modernism never quite displaced the medieval!
    O the governors of the Brutish* Isles: how they still game the game, and spin the spin.

    No matter.
    Present times have made much of all this near obsolete.
    It would be meet if all these glorified parasites , the world over, were to yield up their thrones and titles.
    Unfortunately their latter day replacements, the new rentier billionaires, would be no improvement.
    Therein, the tragedy of our times?
    * I mean no disrespect to the populace of the nation in using this epithet: only its wretched power elites , who have looted the world, willy nilly, with wholesale impunity, for centuries.
    [© R.Kanth 2022]


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    The Lost Minstrel


    I sing no

    lucent hue

    The heart is

    with rue

    Near and

    Left are

    Yet I
    warble on


    Sing not
    for me

    But for


    not then
    of mice
    and men

    And maybe
    talk again?

    And rave
    of Michaelangelo

    Once far away
    long ago?


    The icons come
    the icons

    What’s left
    is but
    a maudlin show

    Where daisies
    and wild weeds


    Sing not
    of sacral

    Towers the
    looks down
    on (wo)men

    that quick

    The winter
    the summer


    Life will

    As we
    boldly chart
    the human

    Until stupor
    does the
    spirit seal


    Quo vadis

    No more
    than wilful

    Rushed to
    an empty



    Hither you

    you lie

    Beneath a
    ogling sky

    That but
    waits for you
    to do
    and ___



    For want
    of wisdom
    for want
    of a nail

    And you
    who bluster
    you who

    You who
    seek that holy

    Where will
    you splendor
    you fail?


    but a

    told tale

    No, you

    Though you

    Though you
    be hale

    lusty cheer

    arms flail

    Your ship of

    Has long
    set sail

    Caught in

    Lost in

    As wizards



    You rush
    in frenzy
    to quail

    You rush
    in frenzy
    to no avail

    [© R.Kanth 2022]


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Let lifeblood
    let life spirit
    We have been
    learnt not
    to feel

    Whence the world
    grows dimmer
    and we know not
    how to heal
    The love force
    still rises
    in wan mute
    As life force
    gone past
    its weal
    ‘Tis a farewell
    to hope
    the spirit
    now must seal
    Even the gods
    will not relent
    though I bow
    scrape and kneel
    So summer flags
    to fall
    and I must take
    to heel
    [© R.Kanth 2022]


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    And now, Gandhi?


    Angry Texas Mom Wants Gandhi Banned From School The Kyle Kulinski Show
    News Item

    So, they love neo-Nazis and hate Gandhi.


    So much for the true mettle of some so-called ‘conservatives’.

    Why do we still use such antiquated terms?

    Is the KKK, perchance, ‘conservative’?

    Or are there more choice terns?

    I can think of a few, and I am no political pundit.

    Like I said, nice going.


    Reject Gandhi today.

    And, why not?, Jesus tomorrow.

    It would seem to follow.

    But it should really occasion no surprise.

    Christianity’ is become, amongst some, as phony a cover for its exact opposite, as ‘liberalism’ is today.

    It is all egregiously Orwellian.

    Religion goes, as politics does: all is corruption, much is sheer depravity.

    Fortunately, the world at large is not gulled by any of this.

    That era is over.

    For good.


    So , let it go on.

    Arrest peace-makers and tread on the meek , the poor, the homeless ( for, in this neck of the woods, it is the 1% that inherit the earth).

    And spend more on arms and WMD’s than the next half a dozen countries taken together, whilst screeching (did I mean preaching?) ‘human rights’ all the while.


    But why bring Gandhi into this, in the first instance?

    To echo another idiom: Let’s not take His name in vain.

    He deserves better.

    Nay, a whole lot better.

    Purveyors of bigotry and hatred must have some local talent to pick on, surely?

    [© R.Kanth 2022]


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    There they came, wave upon wave,
    Titans of the mighty Tribe, goose-stepping
    Cadres of Civilization Mongers
    flying flags, bearing bright Charters
    vivid visions of scopious Human Redemption
    peremptory in short command
    Organized like generals
    with no intelligence overlooked
    to press all Rhetoric into instant Service
    of the Great Emancipatory Cause
    of Liberty, Life, and Lust for Unilateral Happiness


    We, the Little People ,mired in Microcosms
    watched, waved, jumped and clapped
    as they marched in Grand Parade
    down from our meager perches
    in the craven cul de sacs of jaded
    loss of hope, reason and
    ordinary norms of Co-respecting
    Decency, with our own Philosophy
    of Bread, and the sweet Elixir
    of Collective Amnesia
    as they rocketed on overhead

    Ribbons and flags, curled and fluttered,
    lay festooning the grandiloquent
    boulevards of Wealth and State
    as we scampered like mice
    After the March, to nibble the Souvenirs
    of the Great Epoch just unveiled
    by the Orchestra of Imperial Design-

    Here Democracy, there Liberty
    Property, Rule of Law, all gaudy and glistering-
    and how we rushed to collect the swag
    run home, and gorge like expectant Children
    We celebrated in swoon all night long
    this Arrival of the Promised Day
    raising cheap, copious, libations to the health
    of our Great Captains who smiled rich, ravishing smiles
    and bared immaculately polished teeth of steel
    shimmering, glaring television screens distending
    the raucous audio of their Manifest Assembly
    in deafening bytes of syncopating
    timbre, tone, and Declamatory Excess

    Then the last tanks rolled, clunking away –
    the P.A. systems fell sudden silent
    and the grim Mondays of somber Sobriety
    returned to haunt the ineffable Drudgery
    of our new Speedocratic workaday week-
    The Great Machine cranked, creaked
    its stilted wheels back on rails again
    as we sang the Song of the Shirt
    quiet now under our unsweetened breath

    And then came the clumping, clustering
    Pictures blinking like sorties of streaming glow-worms
    dotting in digitals our Great Advantage
    bright proclaimed over the Perilous Planet
    as we set down dinner forks to
    digest its meaning for our limping lives
    as laser rockets razed the riveting screen
    and great plumes of Distal Destruction
    filled adult minds with unthinkable dread
    as children huddled struck dumb seeking
    comfort in their parents’ flinching eyes

    Like merrymakers tossed dizzy off whirling roundabouts
    we re-inform our distrusting hearts of Logic,
    and the Great Game of Reason, played by the
    aerial Mandarins of State
    seeking shreds, shrapnels, shards of meaning
    in the obscure behemoths of hopeless Corruption
    of Speech, Image, Word, and new-fangled Archetype-
    but infertile assurance born of Impotence breeds not
    the sterile contentments of yore: and we stoop warily
    to wonder how and why and when we lost
    even the merest semblance of control

    The music eternal blares and streaking strobes
    scan the hypertrophic universe, lit up like holograms
    of this barren Realm of Discontent,
    born of seething Madness, the Toxic nostrums of Smith, Locke
    the Buonopartism of Commerce and the Calvinism
    of rampant Greed become now the fodder Popcorn and Soda
    of our daily viewing – like incapacitated Voyeurs
    nailed to our seats, staring fixedly ahead
    at the desolation of our own Disempowering lives

    How now to move to Love or Care?
    billows of cleaving empathy made alien by the
    Hobbesian pall envelope us like a miasma,
    seeding descending clouds of disabling distrust-
    crucified in dessicating Hate, we dry up
    in near and far domains, shedding sanguine lives
    of Vitals that fire the fusions of stirred Emotion
    stoking the furnace of warmth, affection and passion-

    We live but in wan Dress Rehearsal of Death
    The Guardians prattle on in their glib Discourse
    of Death: enchain resolve, entombing
    the native springs of Sovereign Actions
    denude, intoxify Earth, Sea, and Sky
    dismembering our Collective Memory
    of Mutual Convenance in trade for
    crass, consumptive stupefactions: now bought
    now sold for spoonfuls of lusting, desire
    and sprigfuls of All-requiting Bigotry

    Slim pontoons of slender Hope still straddle
    the yawning Abyss of Despair; as they run their Last Race
    upon our Free-gifted Spaces, we gather up the fringes
    in rousing Counter- Prophecy: Nothing lives or dies in vain-
    the Clockwork Universe of Order and Exactitude
    Self-Aware, corrects all ravages in Rectifying Time
    and we as Conscious Atoms may yet breathe into that
    Incorrigible Cosmic Plan our Ragged Philanthropy
    of Indemnifying Love in lucent, lustrating streams of unstinting,
    Immaculate, Beatitude

    [© R.Kanth 2006]


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    no more tears
    to shed
    All’s been
    or said
    The grieving
    implores no more
    have all been
    We sip slow
    from the cup of
    For we know
    what lyeth


    The night
    I have no
    And I’m
    almost ready
    for bed
    En passant
    let it
    still be said

    I too once

    And on
    its nectar dew
    have fed

    © R.Kanth 2022


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Do you cry
    when daffodils die
    and roses wilt
    on the thorn
    Ask you why
    we live and die
    perchance why you
    were born
    Or do you pass by
    never asking why
    from darkling dusk
    to morn
    Idle thoughts
    and idle tears
    both keep us lone
    and lorn
    Naught makes sense
    the fog is dense
    and we reap
    but rue
    and scorn
    have wept before
    wondered thence
    were gone
    We are forsworn
    reft forlorn
    as night splinters
    into dawn
    Naught we know
    of the universe
    save that it just
    goes on and on
    Equally odd
    there’s no sign of god
    just concocted faith
    to lean upon

    So though roses bloom
    O prepare for doom
    Nature bids us all:

    © R.Kanth 2022


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Dystopia, Inc.


    We live in it.

    And yet refuse to acknowledge it.

    How long will it take?

    1.6+ mass shootings a day, and we still
    kid ourselves.

    Are we civilised?

    We are not even civil.

    A country that has been Has been At War 93% of its history (229 out of 246 Years) Since 1776.?

    And yet we plod , and persevere.

    Still deem it the best of all possible worlds?


    Such is the power of (carefully crafted) ideology.

    We can miss what is plumb before our eyes.

    And yet fancy ourselves reasonable , thinking, folk?

    They can still get us to believe anything they wish.


    So what can break that hold?


    Answer comes from our baseline (base?) amoral pragmatism.

    Just one weekend of bare supermarket shelves.

    And the spell will wear off, swiftly.

    No spin can alter that.

    Even sordid materialism has its strong points?



    But the secrets of the system are even more dour.

    What are they?

    Keep the vast majority abysmally poor (19% have zero savings, at least half the country lives paycheck to paycheck, and we have the lowest minimum wage in the industrialised world) and they’ll work for nothing.

    [And that is not to mention long-standing race and gender splits.
    By way of illustration, the average white family in Boston has a net worth of about $250000. The average Afro-Am family (in Boston) has a net worth of $8.]

    Keep them also in irrequitable debt, and they’ll conform to anything.: an old Disney ditty says it, raffishly: I owe, I owe, so it’s off to work I go.
    [At $38000 per head , not counting mortgage debt , we are not the most indebted in the world, but we could well be the ones least able to discharge it.]

    Lastly, the sop: hold periodic elections that can , and do, alter nothing fundamental ,and yet, importantly, and endlessly, foster hope (the ‘yes we can’ subterfuge): and the iron cage is complete.

    Gaetano Mosca (Italian sociologist) would have called the above a neat ‘political formula‘.

    It is.

    And it works.


    The worst thing about Dystopia is that it normalises dystopian behaviors, unto perpetuity.

    And we start to think there is no alternative (the TINA myth).

    Only those who have known, and seen, better, know that the above is not true.

    How many are there of that ilk?




    Worse, not only are we dystopian, we (successfully) export this grim template to the world, via the usual standbys of cannon and chicanery.

    To alter Gresham’s Law, bad templates drive good templates out of business..

    What is the impact of our inveterate greed, and our indurate aggression, on the planet?

    It is palpable.

    The world stands at the edge of calamity , owing to our machinations.

    Between Pax Britannica and Pax Americana. what , really, has changed?


    They remain my favorite oxymorons.





    Can this go on forever?


    We are on the brink.

    The race is run.

    Change beckons.

    Do you feel it?

    © R.Kanth 2022


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Autumnal Ode

    (for CLM)

    Waves smile
    raptured glee
    leans to kiss
    the heaving
    sway on
    Waking spirit
    nor high
    It is
    come all
    so fast
    all so soon
    Some vacant
    hour of
    When the
    east wind
    fulsome gay
    In jocund
    heady state
    of mind
    Hallowed time
    once left
    A dowry
    of bashful
    tulip blooms
    The lazy
    bower sweet
    Birds hover
    Earth still
    keeps on
    spinning slow
    All lie in
    Lost in
    Dusk will
    these joys
    But dusk is
    so so far
    So let
    Let it
    every sprite
    must have
    her way
    we leave
    O all too
    In cool
    and a madding
    The love
    this light
    and the

    © R.Kanth 2022


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Obiter Dicta (On EuroModernism)

    (for Vandana Shiva)
    γνῶθι σεαυτόν*
    Ancient Greek Aphorism

    Let us pledge allegiance to the truth – which follows.
    Mind, I speak, often, in allegory and allusion: in the idiom of prosetry (prose interlarded with poetry) that I have developed to express myself.
    The greatest sacrilege of EuroModernism (EM , henceforth) was to turn a band of convivials – permanently – into a company of strangers.
    That is Human Devolution, in a nutshell.
    A human society (I call it the original anthropic society) is built on the stadial supports of family, kinship, and community.
    All simple societies exhibit this essential character.
    When stripped of those healing bondings, we turn into zombies, flirting with insanity, anomie, and angst.
    The greatest danger to the human weal has always stemmed from the ubiquity of male violence.
    It was the genius of simple tribal society to enchain that threat within the bonds of affection(s)
    No other mechanism has ever even come even close to that apt, and amicable, resolution.
    It still remains the only way.
    We are animals, whence instinctual beings, sharing much of our genes with chimps and bonobos.
    Males appear to exhibit chimpian traits, women bonobial behaviors.
    Both are instinctually given.
    Women and children form the first , enduring, social units, and women are also the first peacekeepers – as they have to create a cordon sanitaire to protect children: from Man and beast.
    The domestication of nature and men is a civilisational requirement.
    Women ‘tamed’ men by corralling them within the bonds of domestic felicity, i.e., through love.
    Simple societies(most, not all)devolve into empires, owing to male adventurism, – akin to so-called ‘animal spirits’ – that breaks free of kinship restraints.
    When that occurs, the ‘feminine’ Social Economy of Affections caves to the familiar, ‘masculinist’ Political Economy of Interests (that constitute ‘class societies’).
    That is the tale of the real ‘Fall’ of (hu)Man, as opposed to biblical fantasies.
    Contrary to EM shibboleths , we cannot just announce ourselves, with suitable declarations and manifestos, into a species other than who we are (any more than we can renounce our instinctual traits).
    That is simply a myth: and we are rather consummate myth-making animals!
    The ‘social engineering’ of EM (socialist or capitalist) will always fail, if/and at spectacular cost.
    EM fails for not knowing the baseline facts of human anthropology (wilfully, or not) : that we are co-operative convivials who thrive only in face-to-face, Gemeinschaft, communities.
    So the Gesellschaft nature of ‘nation-states’ makes them wholly inimical to human welfare.
    Socialism failed for not understanding this, even though Marx got his famous idyll from tribal formations (that he saw as ‘primitive communism’).
    Once we enter that engineered domain of ‘organised from above’ formations, we enter the Michelsian world of an implacable Iron Law of Oligarchy. (resulting in despotism, be it benign, or otherwise).
    At the other remove, ‘International class solidarity’, despite its allure, is pure fantasy: it is high affectation only, and breaks down very quickly.
    We live in a spontaneous, self-organising, universe.
    Nature and Society are both, ‘spontaneously’, self-organising.
    Human societies may not be engineered: they arise spontaneously on the basis of family,kindred, and community.
    All life is instinctually driven
    And the inanimate universe is, similarly, governed, by innate laws.
    That is but the existential Alpha and Omega of the Universe.
    Now one can see the fantastic delusions of EM political and social
    In the same way as we need an accurate physics to understand Nature (its biology, chemistry, etc) we need a true anthropology to understand Society (its economy, politics, and philosophy).
    EM did apply physics to Nature: but was entirely clueless in the latter arena.
    So ALL of EM social theory is, quite simply, bunk.
    It is not too late.
    We can still doff EM modes of thinking, being, and doing.
    And return to who we really are: mutually caring convivials.
    As I have pointed out: look to the human family, for instruction.
    It adheres not to one single EM idyll: it is NOT democratic, nor equalist, nor individualist, nor free.
    Yet it gives each of us a sanctuary that no EM utopia could ever hope to provide.
    The bear has its cave, the fox its lair, the bird its nest: and we , our ‘home’ – built on familial (real, or ersatz) ground(s).
    It is natural and social, simultaneously.
    Besides anthropic life may not be about living up to artificially, and arbitrarily, generated ideals, which is the extant EM way: but rather, perhaps, to abide in conformity to our received natures.
    Our highest human need may simple be to huddle.
    The most noxious toxin lovingly created by EM is its Asocial Individualism: which pits each against all, permanently, thereby turning Adversarialism into a vicious ‘universal’ in EM societies.
    No wonder ‘Hell is, simply, other people’ (JP Sartre).
    It is also the signal reason why neither Left nor Right are ever able to build solidarity, over time: turbo-charged egos tear all solidarities down.
    It is also the one key trait that Non-European, but solidly E-Modernist, cultures (like Japan, e.g. ) have never been able to wholly embrace.
    Even EM societies, of a tribalist nature, have not been able to fully accept it: which is why latter-day Scandinavian societies appear so much more sane and hospitable.
    Similarly, women (nurturing children is difficult with self-love!) workers (who find safety in mutual solidarity) and native peoples (inherently, communally based) , albeit for different reasons, have never been able to enthusiastically sanction it.
    We are, as pack/herd animals, attuned to communal living: and thrive in it.
    Deprived of it, we atrophy.
    No wonder, in abject admission of being a failed society, Britain – once a lead EM nation – appointed a Minister of Loneliness.
    Need I say more?

    Nowhere was EM ‘voted in’ by popular acclaim: it was always forced upon recalcitrant people(s).
    We have been forced to live a lie. under stern EM auspices, in defiance of our own deeply felt-needs (which is why so many of us are , on the inside, far better – if occasionally worse – than the system requires of us)
    Why not abandon such alien, and alienating, accoutrements and start to live, according to our lights?.
    Know any EM constitutions that guarantee food, clothing, shelter, security , solidarity, caring, and love?
    So, we could return to roots.
    We would then be rid of false values, false expectations, false attitudes, false motivations, and false goals that have us live drab, insecure, enervating, unfulfilled, cheerless, and unrequiting, lives.
    It could prove a re-animating, re-invigorating, experience: and , who knows?, you might not wish to return to the EM wasteland, once you grasp its vacuity?
    I wonder.
    * Know Thyself
    © R.Kanth 2022


    Professor Rajani Kanth, is Author of Coda (Novel) , A Day in the Life (Novel), and Expiations (Verse)

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    Yan Huang, Author of LIVING TREASURES:

    Erika Raskin, Author of CLOSE:

    • Meet the National Book Foundation’s 5 Under 35

    • s-li

      Excerpted from the LA Times, September 29, 2016

      The National Book Foundation, which presents the National Book Awards, launched its 5 Under 35 program in 2006 to highlight the work of young literary talents; this year each writer gets a $1,000 cash prize and will be invited to participate in public readings.

      Many past 5 Under 35 honorees have gone on to further acclaim. Nam Le’s short story collection “The Boat” won the international Dylan Thomas Prize; Tea Obreht’s novel “The Tiger’s Wife” took the Orange Prize for fiction; and two honorees, Dinaw Mengestu and Karen Russell, were each later awarded MacArthur Fellowships….9781941861301-JacketGray.indd

      One of those writers this year is S. Li, who took up creative writing as a hobby when he was in medical school. The 31-year-old neurologist’s debut novel, “Transoceanic Lights,” was published by Harvard Square Editions, a small independent press.

      “I had sent the book to the National Book Foundation for consideration for the National Book Awards, fully knowing that my chances were zero,” Li said from his home in Burlington, Mass. When he received the email informing him he’d been chosen as an honoree, “I thought it was a scam. And then I realized it wasn’t. I had no idea this was even in the cards.”

      Li’s novel, about a Chinese immigrant family, is based on his own childhood. He was 5 years old when his family moved from Guangzhou, China, to Boston.

      img-41“I was sort of teaching myself the craft of writing,” Li said of his years writing fiction while also learning medicine. “And so it just made natural sense to go with material that comes easiest to you, and that’s your childhood.”

      Li is one of two immigrants honored in this year’s program. Yaa Gyasi, author of the critically acclaimed novel “Homegoing,” was born in Ghana and moved with her family to the United States when she was 2. [more]



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    • What are the best eco books for children and teens?

    • @EmilyDrabs, excerpted from The Guardian,


      Authors including David Almond, Frank Cottrell Boyce and Katherine Rundell plus teen site members share the books that made them think more deeply about climate change and environmental themes. Now share yours!

      This week we’re celebrating the positive power of stories, all kinds of stories, to bring home what we risk losing on our beautiful planet – and what we can do about it. Here authors and children’s books site members share the books that made them think. We’ll be feeding this blog with more recommendations all week, so please share yours – and keep checking back.

      Frank Cottrell Boyce (whose latest book is the remarkably green The Astounding Broccoli Boy)

      First book of Saints

      The book that made me realise that I was part of the environment was The Ladybird Book of Saints. On the cover was this brilliant image of St Francis releasing the caged birds he had he had bought in the market. For ages afterwards I would go into pet shops and zoos and itch to unlock the doors. In fact there are “freeing the animals” scenes in at least two of my books. There are so many environmental messages about how horrible humans are wrecking the planet – that’s obviously true in a way but this image made me feel that I belonged in the World too and that I could cherish and love it.

      David Almond, author of Skellig

      The Promise by Nicola Davies and Laura Carlin. It’s beautifully written, beautifully illustrated picture book. It shows a troubled darkened world being recreated by the human need for greenery, life and colour.

      Louise O’Neill, author of Only Ever Yours

      Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake is a speculative fiction novel that is very much concerned with the damage humans are inflicting upon the environment and the possible catastrophic results that could have. Written in 2003, many plot points now seem eerily prescient and it makes for a disturbing, powerful read. Highly recommended for older teenagers.

      Site member, Patrick

      Carl Hiaasen’s Hoot is true to its name in that it’s a supremely funny YA novel, and one that tends to be overlooked. There’s a real environmental streak running through all of Hiaasen’s works and Hoot is no exception, it deals with a Florida teen who bands together with a couple of new friends to stop the destruction of a burrowing owl colony. It’s a lot of fun with a solid conservationist message at its core and an abundance of charm to boot.”

      Candy Gourlay, author of Shine

      Long ago I wrote a short story called How to Build the Perfect Sandcastle for Under the Weather, the climate change anthology edited by Tony Bradman. About a white sand beach losing its sand because the sea is heating up … the same hot oceans that later whipped up the murderous monster that was Typhoon Haiyan in 2013.

      Perhaps the all too real climate change disaster in the Philippines has made me partial to flood stories. My favorite is Not the End of the World, the lyrical resetting of Noah’s Ark as a Tsunami survival story by Geraldine McCaughrean.

      Lottie Longshanks, site member

      The wild series by Piers Torday. So far I have read The Last Wild and The Dark Wild. Kester has the unusual gift of communicating with animals and it is his mission to save the animals from red eye the disease that is slowly killing them. It is a really exciting story and you soon guess who the villains are Selwyn Stone and his lackeys who want to dictate the way that everyone lives. The amazing rubbish dump in the second book in the series really makes you think about the damage that we are doing to our planet. I can’t wait to read the third book in the series,The Wild Beyond.

      White Dolphin by Gill Lewis Set in the south West of England the exciting story tells of children who take on the might of a powerful fishing business to stop dredging in the harbour because of the damage it does to marine life. I also love Moon Bear by Gill Lewis. This incredibly moving story shows how deforestation leads to misery for the animals whose habitat was the forest. And finally here is a recommendation for small children I read it to my cousin who lives in Oman when he comes to visit us. Dear Greenpeace by Simon James. Emily writes to Greenpeace to find out how to care for the whale that she thinks she has seen in her pond. Emily’s letters and the lovely replies she receives from Greenpeace will give little children a lot of information about whales. (Also see Lottie Longshank’s poem Our Precious world)

      SF Said, author of Varjak Paw

      I recommend Exodus by Julie Bertagna: a brilliantly prescient YA novel about climate change, set in a drowned future world. It’s full of unforgettable visions and characters, and it will stay with you forever!

      ItWasLovelyReadingYou, site member

      My book would be Breathe by Sarah Crossan. It made me think about how we take so many things for granted, such as oxygen. You can’t see it, we use it every day, without it we would not survive; yet many people do not really sit down and feel a sense of gratitude for these types of things, becuase we assume we deserve them, we see them as something that will never go away, we just accept it without question. Breathe really made me feel a sense of ‘imagine if we didn’t have oxygen, or we had limited supplies of it-”, it made me question my unconscious detachment from what keeps us alive, and really feel privelidged to have all of these necessities.

      Katherine Rundell, author of Rooftoppers

      Cosmic, by Frank Cottrell Boyce. Cosmic is a book that makes the world look like something worth protecting. It’s hilariously funny, and also wise – it makes its readers want desperately to go into space, but also to take care of the world while we’re on it. The Earth is, as one of the astronauts says, “some kind of lovely.” The Last Wild series by Piers Torday – these three spectacular books are about a world decimated by humans, and the possibility of that loss feels very real and urgent and frightening – and they’re also fantastic adventure stories, about bravery and animals and human capacity to do huge good as well as harm. And there’s a bossy talking cockroach.

      Site Brahmachari, author of Kite Spirit and Artichoke Hearts

      For me it has to be The Ring of Bright Water Trilogy by Gavin Maxwell. I fell in love with these books as a child because they are set on the West coast of Scotland – a place I love – where wildlife and nature are the biggest characters. It;s a humbling landscape. If you have a love of the outdoors and really want to study the nature of beautiful, playful otters… and can stand to have your heart broken …. you should read these stories. Although they were written 50 years ago they are as timeless as the shingle beaches they are set on. The author lived and breathed the paradise he went to live in… and so will you when you read these books… and afterwards you can watch the film (tissues at the ready!)

      OrliTheBookWorm, site member

      Breathe by Sarah Crossan is probably the book that’s impacted me the most in terms of the environment – it’s a dystopian novel, with people living in domes due to a lack of oxygen – the raw descriptions and harsh realities were wonderfully done and uttery thought provoking, and made me take a step away from my laptop and have a look outside my window…. It’s a brilliant book, which I guarantee will change your perspective on the environment around us.

      Piers Torday, author of The Dark Wild trilogy

      The Animals of Farthing Wood by Colin Dann – the original classic tale of a group of British animals seeking refuge when their precious Farthing Wood is threatened by human development. They overcome incredible obstacles and danger to make it to a wildlife sanctuary. But reading it today there is an extra poignancy – some of the animals in the story, like the red-backed shrike, are now extinct, and others – like the adder, hare and voles – are all under threat.

      BritishBiblioholic, site member

      Watership Down by Richard Adams – When the rabbits in Watership Down are forced to leave their home, it is due to its impending destruction by humans. This potentially can be seen as an allegory for the ongoing destruction for the environment in general – and unlike the rabbits, if we don’t save our environment, we won’t be able to find somewhere else to live.


      Mary, curator, eco-fiction.com

      Memory of Water by Emmi Itäranta: The novel takes place in the future after climate change has ravished economies and ecologies, and made fresh water scarce. The main character, Noria, is a young woman learning the traditional, sacred tea master art from her father. Yet, water is rationed and scarce in her future world. Her family has a secret spring of water, and, as tea masters, she and her father act as the water’s guards, even though what they are doing is a crime according to their future world’s government, a crime strongly disciplined by the military.


      NC front DR TinyNature’s Confession by JL Morin: The eco-novel is wonderful and reminds me of classic science fiction I watched or read as a kid. It was a genre that fascinated me then, and this book has joined that memory. The novel is epic in that it doesn’t just tell a story (which it does do too), but it puts our very survival into question while romping through the universe or discovering new quantum physics that are both scientific and spiritual in nature. In the meantime, universal symbols are unearthed, codes are investigated, fat corporations are dominating, a romance is blossoming, computers come alive, and native tribes and Nature on another planet bring our own treasured past into the future.


      Tito intiro Chavaropana by Jessica Groenendijk: Tito intiro Chavaropana means ‘Tito and the Giant Otter’ in Matsigenka. The author, a biologist who has studied giant otters, is now working on a sequel, in which Tito sets off into the forest to hunt a spider monkey and meets a harpy eagle on the way. They become friends but not without a misunderstanding or two!
      61cwBitpcAL._AA160_Spirit Bear by Jennifer Harrington: Spirit Bear celebrates a rare and iconic black bear that is born with a recessive gene that makes its coat creamy or white. Also called the Kermode bear, the spirit bear lives in the delicate, rich, and threatened ecosystem of the Great Bear Rainforest in British Columbia, Canada. Jennifer’s story is about the journey of a spirit bear cub that gets lost from his mother and has to find his way back.

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    • Publisher Guidelines

    • Publisher Harvard Square Editions is looking for literary fiction of environmental or social significance.

      Its mission is to publish fiction that transcends national boundaries, especially manuscripts that are international, political, literary, sci-fi, fantasy, utopia and distopia. Send submissions of aesthetic value and constructive social or political content, especially manuscripts related to climate change, deforestation, and conservation.

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    • A Moral Atmosphere: Hypocrisy redefined for the age of warming

    • By Bill McKibben (HC ’82)

      This article first appeared in Orion Magazine.


      THE LIST OF REASONS for not acting on climate change is long and ever-shifting. First it was “there’s no problem”; then it was “the problem’s so large there’s no hope.” There’s “China burns stuff too,” and “it would hurt the economy,” and, of course, “it would hurt the economy.” The excuses are getting tired, though. Post Sandy (which hurt the economy to the tune of $100 billion) and the drought ($150 billion), 74 percent of Americans have decided they’re very concerned about climate change and want something to happen… (more)
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    • Cambridge divest from fossil fuel

    • We call on the City of Cambridge Retirement System to immediately freeze any new investment in fossil fuelcompanies, and to divest from direct ownership and any commingled funds that include fossil fuel public equities and corporate bonds within 5 years (more)

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    Around Harvard

    Brain Pickings

    by Ben Mattlin (HC ’84)

      Like all romantic entanglements, the reasons for their tensions—tensions, which eventually led the invisible rubber band between them to snap—weren't quite clear.  Or maybe they were entirely too clear.  Telling me about it, Shane struggled for the right words, but his meaning rang with the clarity of breaking glass. "For a while, she was planning on moving up here to be with me, to be able to help out with all my stuff," he [...]

    by Teresa Hsiao (HC ’07)

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  • Sheila Connolly (GSA ’79) – Mystery Lovers’ Kitchen


    TylerJamesComicTyler James
    All of a sudden, though, you start stacking ComixTribe, Image, Boom, Action Lab, Valiant, etc... books against Big Two books...
    92 months ago
    we smell like coffee and old libraries filled with new books waiting to be read
    92 months ago
    aidanr1022Aidan Ryan
    When Dad has to hit the books in the middle of the day so he can support the fam @emrson11webster http://t.co/igjSlYR8cB
    92 months ago
    forgot my books ?
    92 months ago

    Andrew Binks, Author in VOICE FROM THE PLANET

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