Christmas 2013

Logan

Erin

Dear Family and Friends;

As I contemplated the prospect of having my son, Michael, and his family with us during the Christmas Holidays it occurred to me that I might have to address the question of Santa Claus with my grandson, Logan Matthew, who is eight years and 8 months old.

Up to now, Michael and his wife, Neva, have maintained that all Christmas presents come from Santa. Tags on packages are addressed to Logan, or his sister, Erin (3), from Santa. Cookies have been put out on Christmas Eve and only crumbs are left Christmas morning. Will Logan still believe in Santa, or will the word have gotten around the 3rd Grade that Santa isn’t real? Will Logan ask me, “Grandpa Richard, Do you believe in Santa?”

I decided that I’d answer unequivocally, “Yes,” because I do. I believe that Santa, or St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Kris Kringle, or whomever, instills a spirit of love and generosity in people around the Holidays. I only wish that same spirit could be kept all year through. I suspect that Logan, who is very intelligent, and inquisitive, will look at me askance, but I will maintain my poise and refuse to be further interrogated. You either believe in Santa or you don’t. If it makes you happier not to, be my guest. Otherwise, let’s open the presents!

We’ve already being blessed with many gifts this year; good health, a full larder, good weather, a warm and sturdy home, and the company of family and friends. Having the whole family around us at this holiday time; Stephen, Michael, Neva, Logan, and Erin, is a very special gift. Next year will mark the 50th year of marriage for Patricia and I -- a gift that keeps on giving!

I feel a great sadness for the many people here in America and around the world who live from one day to the next wondering how they will survive, and I hope the spirit of giving encourages all of us, not just now, but always, to help, directly, or by contributing to the worthwhile charities that make it their life’s work to help these people.

May you enjoy your holiday, whether it be Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Diwali, or whatever you celebrate that brings you joy and offers joy to the world. Have fun, love one another, and have a very Happy New Year!

Lubię spotykać nowych ludzi

We have an opening for

An English teacher in Krakow

The opening is small

So teachers taller than 120 cm

Or wider than 60 cm

Need not apply

Although other openings exist for

Very big Polish people willing to learn

Hangul or Chonsongul

Candidates must be

Proficient in Haidong Gumdo

And be willing to travel

To say the least

Which isn't saying much

BTW

Pyongyang is a lovely city

Perched prettily on the Taedong River

And welcomes all peoples of the world

With open gulagi

A recent trade mission to Krakow

Came with nothing to trade

(they asked for a Moscow loan)

But small talk

And so left empty handed

Which in Poland is known as

Jumping over the

Moo Goo Gai Pan

With bare feet

In addition to Krakow and Pyongyang

Openings exist in the

Fabric of the Universe

Candidates must own at least

One cat or know

what box the cat is in

Let my people go!

“When Korea is reunified, our country will make its appearance on the world arena with great dignity as a rich and powerful, independent and sovereign state with a 70 million population, and our nation will exalt its pride of being a resourceful, dignified and great nation.”

(Kim Jong-il, “Let Us Carry Out the Great Leader Comrade Kim Il Sung’s Instructions for National Reunification,” Aug. 4, 1997)

Himalayan Tahr Goat

by Hedy Carra

Himalayan Tahr Goat

We had to look into the rising sun to see you

crossing the dry creek bed 

and then our empty field

at the end of autumn when there is little to browse

and we have plowed up any grass that remained. 

You crossed the empty expanse 

without looking right or left,

presenting us your profile—

haughty or stoic or perhaps distraught—

and went straight up the next hillside you came to. 

How did you get

from your majestic mountains

to our scrubby hills where

we are used to our everyday does and bucks,

our quail, fox, raccoons and squirrels?

Now every day we ponder why such a visitor

walked through our life one misty morning.

Life Imitates Art: The Unfortunate Incident of Merrill Newman in North Korea, and the Parallel with the novel, The Reunification of Joseph K.

On October 26, 2013, Merrill Newman, an 85 year-old American, was buckled in his seat on a plane preparing to depart Pyongyang's Sunan International Airport when a flight attendant pointed him out to two men in uniform. They promptly escorted him off the plane, according to his family and a traveling companion. Newman was traveling with a group out of Beijing on a tour bus through North Korea. Newman's wife and family haven't heard anything from him or his captors since, nor are the getting any information from American authorities.

America doesn't have diplomatic relations with the Democratic People's Republic of North Korea, so it has no embassy or consulate in Pyongyang -- no feet on the ground -- and has to work through the Swedish Embassy to get any information on why the North Koreans are holding Mr. Newman, although there is speculation that it has something to do with his being a veteran of the Korean War.

There is little to go on but speculation concerning why the North Koreans took an 85 year-old American hostage. North Korea and its government are way beyond rationale understanding, at least from a Westerner's viewpoint. The cult of Kim is difficult for even those educated in the language, history, and culture of the North to fully grasp.

This is part of the problem for the protagonist of my novel, The Reunification of Joseph K. I chose to model the story of Joseph Kimmelmann on the novels of Franz Kafka, because, like the characters in The Trial, and The Castle, once my protagonist is in the clutches of the North Koreans, he is helpless to determine why he's being held, let alone how to escape.

I sincerely hope that Mr. Newman is more fortunate than Mr. Kimmelmann.

Just Published: The Reunification of Joseph K

Joseph Kimmelmann, a graduate of the Jackson School of International Relations, Korean Studies Program, is greeted at the Pyongyang Airport by two North Korean ‘minders,’ who accompany him virtually everywhere he goes during his visit to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the so-called, ‘Hermit Kingdom.’

Joseph represents Castle, a venture capital firm that wrings profits out of distressed properties, and Pyongyang’s Ryugyong Hotel, under construction for twenty-six years, is as distressed as they come. But Castle Ventures has no intention of helping the DPRK finance the hotel. Instead, Joseph is in Pyongyang to spy on potential competitors. But Joseph has another mission in North Korea, a ‘small favor’ he agreed to do for the CIA.

It only takes Joseph a few days to learn that flaunting the prohibitions placed on foreign visitors by North Korea is an extremely dangerous game. It takes him a little longer to realize just how foolish he’s been in coming to North Korea, let alone in associating himself with the ‘American imperialistic’ CIA.

“The Reunification of Joseph K” is the story of a flawed young man’s introduction to a culture he thought he knew. A culture he studied in great detail, becoming fluent in its language and, he thought, in its customs. But despite his advanced degree, Joseph’s appreciation for the ‘cult of Kim,’ is sadly deficient and he is ill-prepared for the elaborate scheme the People’s Republic has hatched to thumb its nose at America, a scheme in which he, Joseph Kimmelmann, is the pawn.

In many respects, The Reunification of Joseph K is reminiscent of Franz Kafka’s “The Trial.” Like his namesake, Josef K, Joseph Kimmelmann is conspired against and prosecuted by inaccessible authorities, but unlike Kafka’s unfortunate protagonist, Joseph Kimmelmann knows why he’s being punished, and he’s willing to try anything to escape his fate.

__________________________________

Available in the Amazon.com Kindle Store on November 5, 2013

At Long Island Peninsula, Washington

Looking west towards the ocean, September 29, 2013

Pain Disorder

Doctors tell him his pain is delusional

Fed by some life experience so disturbing that

He has buried it deep within his psyche

As the memory struggles to surface

It tears at the muscle and sinew surrounding it

Bends back the ribs around the heart

And stabs at the heart itself

This memory seems to have a life of its own

And is determined to end his

Toll Bridge

Billy Daggett left his bike in the Best Western parking lot and walked to the toll bridge spanning Hood River. He stood for a moment hugging himself against the cold wind and looked out at the old bridge and the reflection of its lights in the gray waters of the Columbia River. There were no cars crossing the bridge at this late hour. No headlights to spot him heading out to the center, where the lift span stood high over the river like a guillotine.

Billy was shivering. He didn't know if it was the cold, or fear. Maybe a little of each. No, that wasn't honest. He was more frightened than cold. He was scared of what might be waiting for him out there. The fear made his legs feel wobbly, but he kept walking. He wanted something very badly, and getting it was worth the risk -- wasn't it?

#

It never would have occurred to Billy to be scared of going out on the bridge if not for Kyle Howell. Howell was a classmate at Hood River Middle School, where Billy was in the Sixth Grade. He also lived next door, so he and Billy tended to hang out, even though Kyle was a grade ahead of Billy. Kyle was always telling Billy about horror stories he was reading in the weird comics he bought. The latest tale of terror was called “The Monkey’s Paw.” It was creepy.

Kyle was with Billy when they came upon the old man sitting in front of the Sun Markt. Kyle and Billy were headed into the store to buy candy and comics when the old man, not even looking at Billy, said, "I kin get ya yer dog back.”

Billy stopped in his tracks, and stared at the old man. Kyle stood there holding the door open looking at Billy. “You coming?”

Billy waved him on inside. Then he turned to the old man, who was moving a toothpick side to side in his mouth and scratching the grey stubble on his cheek. “You have my dog?” Billy said, his voice sounding strangely high and shaky.

#

Billy’s dog Tag had disappeared more than a week ago. Billy had ridden his bicycle all over looking for the dog, and his mom had even helped him put up signs around Hood River all the way down to Oak Street, offering a twenty-five dollar reward for the dog, a long-haired golden retriever mix, smaller than a pure breed retriever, but just as lovable and twice as energetic.

Tag was always at the corner of the yard, tail wagging furiously, waiting for Billy when he came home from school. Billy’s mom said Tag was better than an alarm clock. As soon as three o’clock rolled around, there was Tag scratching at the door to get out and greet Billy. Billy and his dog had been inseparable.

“I don’t got ‘em, but I kin get ‘em,” the old man said, finally looking up at Billy over the bags hanging under his bloodshot eyes. The old man had his hands folded in his lap, and he twiddled his thumbs as he spoke, as if bored by the exchange with a scrawny kid like Billy.

“There’s a reward,” Billy said, stepping back involuntarily as the old man rose. Standing, he was taller than he looked all slump-shouldered on the bench. He looked down at Billy. “Don’t want no reward,” the old man said, taking the toothpick from his mouth and examining it intently.

“Ya know what kinda bridge that is over the river there?” the man said, canting his head towards the Columbia.

Billy looked at the old man. “What kind?” he said. "Uh..."

“It’s a toll bridge,” the old man said, with a smile that made a shiver run down Billy’s spine. “You meet me out there at the lift span at Midnight. I’ll have yer dog for ye.”

#

The Defenders

I love the courage
of the little black ants
who when disturbed
come out of their old
fencepost as big dogs
come after a rat,
take hold of me,
shake me, and growl.

- WENDELL BERRY

The Reunification of Joseph K

by Richard Badalamente

Joseph Kimmelmann, a graduate of the Jackson School of International Relations, Korean Studies Program, is greeted at the Pyongyang Airport by two ‘minders,’ who will accompany him virtually everywhere he goes during his visit to the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, the so-called, ‘Hermit Kingdom.’

Joseph represents Castle, a venture capital firm that wrings profits out of distressed properties, and Pyongyang’s Ryugyong Hotel, under construction for twenty-six years, is as distressed as they come. But Castle Ventures has no intention of helping the DPRK finance the hotel. Instead, Joseph is in Pyongyang to spy on potential competitors. But Joseph has another mission in North Korea, a ‘small favor’ he agreed to do for the CIA.

It only takes Joseph a few days to learn that flaunting the prohibitions placed on foreign visitors by North Korea is an extremely dangerous game. It takes him a little longer to realize just how foolish he’s been in coming to North Korea, let alone in associating himself with the ‘American imperialistic’ CIA.

“The Reunification of Joseph K” is the story of a flawed young man’s introduction to a culture he thought he knew. A culture he studied in great detail, becoming fluent in its language and, he thought, in its customs. But despite his advanced degree, Joseph’s appreciation for the ‘cult of Kim,’ is sadly deficient and he is ill-prepared for the elaborate scheme the People’s Republic has hatched to thumb its nose at America, a scheme in which he, Joseph Kimmelmann, is the pawn.
_________________________________________________________
The Reunification of Joseph K is scheduled to be published in November 2013

Frederik Pohl, 1919 - 2013

Seamus Heaney, 1939 - 2013

An Afterwards (1979)

She would plunge all poets in the ninth circle

And fix them, tooth in skull, tonguing for brain;

For backbiting in life she'd make their hell

A rabid egotistical daisy-chain.

Unyielding, spurred, ambitious, unblunted,

Lockjawed, mantrapped, each a fastened badger

Jockeying for position, hasped and mounted

Like Ugolino on Archbishop Roger.

And when she'd make her circuit of the ice.

Aided and abetted by Virgil's wife,

I would cry out, 'My sweet, who wears the bays

In our green land above, whose is the life

Most dedicated and exemplary?'

And she: 'I have closed my widowed ears

To the sulphurous news of poets and poetry.

Why could you not have, oftener, in our years

Unclenched, and come down laughing from your room

And walked the twilight with me and your children

Like that one evening of elder bloom

And hay, when the wild roses were fading?'

And (as some maker gaffs me in the neck)

'You weren't the worst. You aspired to a kind.

Indifferent, faults-on-both-sides tact.

You left us first, and then those books, behind.'

The CIA Admits Role in Overthrow of Iran's Freely Elected Prime Minister -- But We Knew That!

The CIA has released documents which for the first time formally acknowledge its key role in the 1953 coup which ousted Iran's democratically elected Prime Minister, Mohammad Mossadeq.

CIA Documents Acknowledge its Role

Excerpt from The Lion and the Sun:

Conte remembered meeting Anatoly Balakirev for the first time at this reception. He wore the dark blue Parade uniform of a USSR Air Force officer, with epaulettes, a gold sash at the waist, and calf-high black leather boots. His chest was covered in medals, only a few of which Conte recognized, including medals for combat service, and for bravery. By comparison, Conte’s black Air Force mess dress uniform was drab, and Conte wore only a few medals, including the Air Force Cross, the Purple Heart, a National Defense Service Medal, and the Vietnam Service Medal.

Balakirev was direct with this new American, who seemed so sure of himself. The Russian blamed Britain and America for the overthrow of Iran’s elected Prime Minister, Mohammed Mosaddeq in 1953, claiming that the US was threatened by Mosaddeq’s plan to nationalize oil and acted accordingly.

Conte was very familiar with the CIA’s botched operation to overthrow Mosaddeq, but pointed out to Balakirev the Communist’s role in undermining Mosaddeq. Conte told Balakirev that he was sure the USSR was behind the Tudeh Party’s subversion. Balakirev countered that the USSR’s only interest in Iran was to aid a developing nation and create a future trading partner. This sparring was in reality cover for each trying to determine what the other was really up to in Tehran at that critical time in the Shah’s rule. But it was true. The seeds of discontent in Tehran today had been planted by the CIA and the British SIS in 1953, and before that, the occupying forces of the USSR in 1946.

On Seeing Cirrus Clouds Over Amon Basin

Feathery clouds fanned out across the sky

Like an Indian Chief’s headdress

A soft steady wind washed down Amon Creek

And whispered through the birch lining its banks

Leaves shimmered silver and green and gold

What do women do with their handbag

What do women do with their handbag

when they jump off a bridge?

There is no chair back to hang the bag over

No booth to place the bag on

so that sliding out will require picking it up

It’s a nightmare

Leaving the handbag

at the checkout counter

Having it plucked out of the shopping cart

Leaving it on the adjoining seat

in the movie theater

It is filled with everything she needs

Lipstick

Three different colors

Chapstick

Screwed to the max

Hair brush

She keeps meaning to clean it

Eight pens

None the same

Nail file

Broken

Both pieces

are in there somewhere

Breath mints

Opened

Cigarettes

A lighter

A white plastic spoon

from Wendy’s

Dark glasses

non-prescription

She can’t wear them

Makeup compact

the mirror is broken

Prozac

Keys

Cell phone

Wallet

With pictures of her children

Her identity is in there

It could be stolen

Valium

A two Euro coin

Nickel-Brass

Copper-Nickel

Or she could leave the bag

in the rental car

at Orly

Upset after he told her

On the same bridge

Where she stands now

Wondering what to do

with her handbag

It's a nightmare

Dievs Rides

Dievs rides

fierce across fields of ice and fire

His horse plunges through snow and flame

Heedless

He rides

Gray cloak billowing behind

He raises a silver sword

And slashes open cosmic dust

To create worlds

Making the world we know

the world of which we are a part

the world we now decimate

Dievs rides

Sword raised

And in one violent thrust

Obliterates that which would

obliterate earth

this human blight

On the closing of US Embassies

US State Department Press Briefing

QUESTION: Just because, presumably, if a U.S. citizen needs to go to an embassy and you’re not willing to disclose that the embassy is closed, and then they show up and the embassy blows up --

MS. HARF: Right, and of course, we would --

QUESTION: -- that doesn’t seem very fair.

Woman in the Ruins

A story by Michael Peck
From Zouch Magazine (by permission)

The prostitute was not surprised by Berke’s request. Nor when he unscrewed a fold-out easel in the bathroom. Organized his tubes of paint on the sink.

Berke’s city, 1944, bombed into its own shadow. The gathering of photographers excited by all this photogenic death. Orphans prowled the alleyways of his dead city. The orphans wanted to be photographed. The photographers didn’t want to photograph the orphans. The orphans stole the photographers’ equipment. The photographers became incensed and chased the orphans. The orphans hid in closets and cupboards.

  “I want you to shower,” Berke said.

     “I’m clean.”

     She covered her breasts with her hands and stepped into the shower. Awkward in the adolescent purity of the old man’s longing.

     “The water should be cold. Turn away from me and wash yourself as though I’m not here.”

     He outlined a background of disintegrating gray-stone and brick. The white of the parched sky.

The woman in the ruins.

Her short brown hair.

White tight fingers clutching soap.

“Do you like this?” the girl asked.

“Continue to wash yourself,” Berke said.

Of it all, Berke remembered; the sinkhole of a house once belonging to a violin manufacturer, and the naked woman bathing contentedly in the spray of a geysering water main. Scrubbing her shoulders, dark silt drifting down her legs.

It wasn’t her face that he recalled, but the soap. As it slipped through her fingers. As it cascaded along the dusty street. As it descended into the gutter. As the woman turned to him.

The woman in the sinkhole began to cry. She looked pleadingly at Berke. He felt real shame, then. Shame at eavesdropping on her sadness.

He was twelve.

“Look at me,” the woman said to him.

“Look at me,” Berke said to the girl.

He hated the painting as soon as it was finished.

The girl wrapped herself in a towel. When she came up to Berke he slapped her hard on the face with the back of his hand. She was stunned with instinctive tears.

“I’m trying to find something,” he said.

“Did you find it?” she asked.

“No.”

At the door he gave the girl an extra fifty dollars.

Afterwards he walked away to other ruins, wondering who else’s dream the woman would inhabit.

__________________________________________

Zouch Magazine

publishes an eclectic compendium of material from a broad and diverse range of sources and genres, including: poetry; original fiction; nonfiction including interviews, reviews, essays; and commentary on style and design, art, music, cartoons, and other forms of media.