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    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

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    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

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    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

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    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

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    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

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    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

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    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

  • Home
  • Poetry
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    This Is Not A Feminist Poem – Wana Udobang (a.k.a. Wana Wana)

    from AFROWOMEN POETRY – Three Poets from Tanzania: Langa Sarakikya, Gladness Mayenga, Miriam Lucas

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    The Bitter Bulbs of Trees Growing by the Roadsides of History – Three Poems by Iya Kiva

    What Was Heart Is Now A Scorched Branch – Three Poems by Elina Sventsytska

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Water: The Longest Tunnel Where the Color Blue Is Born — Four Poems by SHANKAR LAHIRI

    Message to Forough Farrokhzad and other poems – Samira Albouzedi

  • Fiction
    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    BOW / BHUK – Parimal Bhattacharya

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    A Very Different Story (Part II)- Nandini Sahu

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    The Aunt: An Exhilarating Story by Francesca Gargallo

    THE PROGENITOR – Zakir Talukder (trans. from Bengali by Masrufa Ayesha Nusrat)

    Stalks of Lotus – Indrani Datta

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations:  Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    Love in Africa and the Variety of its Declinations: Short-story Tasting from Disco Matanga by Alex Nderitu

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

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    Menstruation in Fiction: The Authorial Gaze – Farah Ahamed

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    Aadya Shakti, or Primal Energy – Lyla Freechild

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE TIME HAS COME – Gaius Tsaamo

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” –  Massimo Ceresa

    THE AMAZONS OF THE APOCALYPSE from “Ikonoklast – Oksana Šačko’: arte e rivoluzione” – Massimo Ceresa

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

  • Interviews & reviews
    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The mushroom at the end of the world. Camilla Boemio interviews Silia Ka Tung

    The Excruciating Beauty of Ukrainian Bravery: Camilla Boemio Interviews Zarina Zabrisky on Her Photography Series

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  • Out of bounds
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    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
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    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    THE MATERICIST MANIFESTO by AVANGUARDIE VERDI

    Artwork by Mubeen Kishany – Contamination and Distancing

    Glory to the Heroes! Poems by Volodymyr Tymchuk

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    Materials from Worldwide Readings in Solidarity with Salman Rushdie – Bologna Event

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    The Shipwreck Saga – Lynne Knight

    Phoenix: Part I – YIN Xiaoyuan

    Surrender to Our Explosive Democracy – Five Poems by Serena Piccoli from “gulp/gasp” (Moria Poetry 2022)

    Take Note of the Sun Shining Within Twilight – Four Poems by Natalia Beltchenko

    Me and French, or What I Did During the Pandemic (Moi et le français, ou Ce que j’ai fais pendant la pandémie) – Carolyn Miller

    Becoming-animal as a Mirror – Ten Animals from Gabriele Galloni’s Bestiary

  • News
    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    HAIR IN THE WIND – Calling on poets to join international project in solidarity with the women of Iran

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    THE DREAMING MACHINE ISSUE N. 11 WILL BE OUT ON DEC. 10

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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Home Out of bounds Fiction

Displaced Persons, by Mia Funk

Republished courtesy of The Creative Process website

November 26, 2019
in Fiction, Out of bounds, The dreaming machine n 5
Displaced Persons, by Mia Funk
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Her grandfather would never go back there. He distrusted the place. ‘The people smile all the time,’ he used to say, as though that were a bad thing. ‘How can you trust anyone who smiles constantly.’ And the girl thought at the time that he could just as easily be talking about America. ‘Yes, but here they smile all the time and they don’t really mean it. They’re smiling at you, but it’s for a reason. Like they’re insane or they’re high on Prozac or they want to cheat you out of your life savings. There’s a reason behind the American smile. Behind the Filipino smile, there’s no motive. They really mean it. I’d go crazy if I had to live in a place like. Ninety million genuinely friendly people. I’d lose my mind if I had to go back there.’

And so he hadn’t. He’d arrived in America in 1929 at the height of the Depression and had never returned. And he couldn’t have been happier because he liked hard work and studying and got a good job as a structural engineer. He loved saving money more than spending it and he wasn’t stingy, either. Whenever his family asked, he gave. A house, his sister’s education…if only to get them off his back. The exchange rate was amazing. For what he spent on gas going to work at Boeing, you could feed a family there for a month.

Five years later when she was ten, the granddaughter asked him again. Her grandmother and Uncle Baby were ‘making a trip back’ and wanted her to go with them. It was in the middle of the school year.

‘It’s not even worth the trip,’ he said. He was afraid she’d miss too much school and have to repeat a grade and this stain would be forever on her record and she’d never get into a good college. She’d go away for two months, forget how to speak English properly and come back speaking pidgin and be bumped into some remedial class for the thinking impaired. ‘You wouldn’t like it. They smile and dance all the time.’

‘Yes, they like to dance. Isn’t that terrible! Better they should spend half their life in a shed tinkering,’ her grandmother said. Dancing, or grandfather’s disinterest in it, was something of a sore point. ‘It’ll be good for her.’

‘It’s like they don’t even realise that they’re poor and should be unhappy.’ Happiness, being, in his mind, this limited commodity you had to earn the right to enjoy. ‘She won’t fit in there. That whole country lacks common sense.’

They argued for two weeks. In the end, she hadn’t gone. It wasn’t until years later that she finally made the trip.

They stopped to stay at a hotel near the sea and ate lobsters for the price of a Happy Meal back home. Their suite had a view of the sea and was otherwise clean, except the floor was crawling with cockroaches.

‘It’s the heat,’ her husband said. ‘Nothing you can do. You block up one hole and they come piling through another.’

That night it was too hot and she couldn’t sleep. She slung her camera around her neck and decided to take a walk. The main street had that weird half-emptiness of seaside towns off-season. She heard some voices and saw lights in a distant circus tent.

It was dark inside. Naked men appeared to be standing on stilts.

‘What are they doing?’ she asked a young woman named Pilar who was standing watching from the tent’s entrance.

‘Practicing…’ Pilar had a kind of radiant plainness, so that at first sight she was nothing to look at, but her beauty grew on you until it had this steady glow. The granddaughter nodded, though she could barely make out the figures moving around in the darkness. ‘…Practicing for Easter.’

‘Crucifixion reenactments? I heard about them…’

The granddaughter lifted her camera to her eye and was about to take a photograph when Pilar asked, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Taking a picture.’

‘Why?’ The straightforwardness of her question was so simple and calm that the granddaughter recalled her grandfather’s words they don’t know how to be unhappy.

‘Because I want to remember. It’s not like I see something like this every day.’

‘When I want to remember, I close my eyes. Pictures don’t help. Sometimes they make you forget what’s important.’

And the granddaughter thought of the picture of the big house that her grandfather had bought for his mother with his first five years savings working three jobs. The best house in the village before it was carried away in a typhoon…Eight months later her computer will crash, losing all these photographs of standing on the shore, the fading light and distant relatives she feels close to without knowing at all, of shopping malls and grass huts, the smack and sting of mosquitos, a language still foreign to her buzzing in her ears, riding on jeepneys between stolen wealth hoarded by expats in Makati banks guarded by machine gun…a whole other world from the one her grandfather left behind. She’ll lose them all, but doesn’t know that now, and spends half the time taking pictures thinking they’ll last forever.

Now Pilar says they should leave the men alone because they ‘are about to do something private’. But the granddaughter finds a way to sneak back in and sees that all they are doing is washing their feet. Funny how something like washing your feet when it’s done in the dark by twelve sweaty men wearing nothing but loincloths takes on a mysterious dimension. Like modern dance, ‘half of it’s just stagecraft and good lighting,’ her husband liked to say. He wasn’t a big fan of modern dance. ‘It’s $200 to watch a man moving a rock up a hill. If I wanted that I’d go to a quarry.’

But the granddaughter was a photographer and forever curious. She’d been asked not to, but was taking photographs of everyone on the sly, getting right up close, under the wooden crucifixes, thinking that it was kind of a waste. People so poor shouldn’t be so good looking. One in particular was stunning––lean and perfect, but stuck out there in the middle of nowhere, miles away from Hollywood or anywhere he could capitalise on it.

What had her grandfather looked like as a young man? She had no idea. No photographs survived, so to her he always seemed old. Forever practical.

A boy of about ten brought her a bowl to wash herself.

They said if she was interested, that she could try it. It didn’t really hurt. And she thought of her husband, who was worried about hygiene, and of the pain of sticking the giant nail through the skin of her hand. She liked her hands, she needed her hands.

‘Maybe I’ll just watch.’

It’s almost impossible to visit a Filipino house without the hosts stuffing you with food. Even in poor homes, they bring out one plate after another until finally the guest gives in. Apparently, the incessant hospitality applies to mock-crucifixions, too. The accidental visitor politely declines, but they smile and start pushing you onto a crucifix. And out comes the bowls of nails and bandages.

‘See, safe,’ someone behind her said. ‘Pilar, she’s a certified nurse.’

‘No, really,’ the granddaughter said, really not sold on the whole happy crucifixion thing.

‘You’ll like it, yes. Hardly no pain.’

‘I mean it. I’m really not into this.’

‘We don’t understand. Why you come here?’

And she stops because she’s not sure either. Why did she come? ‘I was just…curious,’ she finally answered.

‘You’ll like it. It’s just like your first time eating balut. You think, disgusting, I’m not going to eat that, but after a while you stop noticing the tiny feathers and cute little half-developed claws and it grows on you.’

‘Secret is, don’t think about it,’ the Handsome One had come down off his cross and was wrapping some rope around her wrist as the granddaughter looked from face to face, starting to sweat.

‘It’s very good,’ Pilar the Nurse assured her, ‘for the blood.’

‘Really?’

‘Full of protein. It’s all I eat, balut is!’ They were still talking eggs as they hoisted her up, snaking a rope around her ankles.

‘But I’m not even Catholic, I’m Buddhist,’ the granddaughter said.

‘Oh…’ They looked at her as if she just said I eat babies. ‘She doesn’t belong here.’

Truth was, she didn’t know what she believed in. She believed in something, but it changed from day to day. The idea of some big smiling face in the sky, floating on a cloud, staring down at her was a little scary. The idea of a man in an orange robe sitting under a tree, less so. There were computer creeps who could send you an email embedded with a program which could take over your computer, enabling your webcam to watch everything you do. She didn’t know what they did with the tapes and didn’t want to know. That’s how she felt about a god who could hear all her thoughts. Just a little too invasive. She’d never liked the sight of blood. If they wanted to nail a man to a cross, that was their business. She wasn’t judging. Just saying she didn’t want to take part.

On the walk back to their hotel room, for some reason she found herself remembering being in New York and wandering into a tiny closet of a Psychic shop off Bleecker and being told that she would ‘never find happiness’ even if she went to the mountains. It was completely arbitrary and mysterious––the psychic probably said it to every person who walked through the door. She also said the granddaughter would be married three times and get rich writing a bestselling cookbook. None of which had yet transpired.

When she climbed back into bed the sky had lost its darkness and it was approaching day. She had over a hundred photos on her camera and full use of her limbs.

She shared the photos with her husband over breakfast. ‘You’re really quite insane, you know that.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘but in a good way.’ She assured him there’d been no risk, that it had all been a big misunderstanding. Still, he said he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight for the rest of the trip. She was too trusting and one day it would land her in trouble. ‘I have to protect you,’ he’d told her this dozens of times, it was their running schtick, ‘from yourself.’

After breakfast, they spent the day taking a boat around the Thousand Islands. Some were so close together you could walk between them like a god. The water so clear you could see the bottom. Crossing over Lingayan Gulf, they passed a fishing boat carrying five Jesuses and Pilar.

‘That’s them!’ she told her husband. They waved at her with bandaged hands and called out something, but she was too far away to hear.

And she thought that here at the edge of the sea, facing out, might be good. So much beauty…so much poverty. She thought of her grandfather’s expressed wish never to return, but where else was she going to scatter them? For three years she’d kept him on her mantlepiece with it’s view of nothing but a stuffed couch. He said he never wanted to come back. ‘But,’ her grandmother said, ‘the dead are like the living. They never know what’s best for them.’ The news that morning said that there was a storm coming, it would push up north and then out to the Pacific. He’d like that journey. Up and away. She’d scatter his ashes here or at the next island. She wondered if he’d be angry with her, but if he still felt that strongly about it, she was sure he’d find a way of swimming home.

 

Find the original story in The Creative Process website

 

Mia Funk is an artist, writer, interviewer and founder of The Creative Process (please link to www.creativeprocess.info) traveling exhibition and international educational initiative. Her portraits of writers and artists appear in many public collections, including the U.S. Library of Congress, Dublin Writers Museum, Office of Public Works, American Writers Museum (forthcoming), and other museums and culture centers.
As a writer and interviewer, she contributes to various national publications. She served on the National Advisory Council of the American Writers Museum 2016-17. Funk  has received many awards and honors, including the Prix de Peinture from the Salon d’Automne de Paris and has exhibited at the Grand Palais, Paris. She was commissioned by the Guinness Cork Jazz Festival to paint their 30th-anniversary commemorative painting of over 20 jazz legends. Her paintings of Francis Bacon and Lucian Freud won the Thames & Hudson Pictureworks Prize, were nominated for Aesthetica Magazine’s Art Prize, and were exhibited in Brussels for Bacon’s centenary, in Paris at the American University, as well as international arts festivals in Europe.
The cover image is the painting “Saudade” by Mia Funk.
Tags: crucifixion ritualsdisplacementintergenerationalmemoryMia FunkmigrationPhilippinesphotographyshort story

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HAIR IN THE WIND we  invite all poets from all countries to be part of the artistic-poetic performance HAIR IN...

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