Macario, by Juan Rulfo, is about being poor. It is also a metaphor for the desire all people have, rich or poor, to have more. And how sometimes life is about striving and wanting. And not actually about arriving or achieving because then, the game would be over so to speak. To me he is about a past that is fading, the Mexican past of riddles, sayings, and deep morals. He is about folklore. Cultura Popular Folklórica. These stories come from a time when popular culture was folkloric, not idiotic, not Britney Spears. You can see hints of this in the way old people talk versus the way young people talk, in English or Spanish. If you like Macario, you might like a book called Canasta de Cuentos Mexicanos (Basket of Mexican Stories), it is all about fables that define traditional Mexican culture, by the super mysterious Torsvan Croves, aka Bruno Traven.

Sarah Kulla is the poetry editor of High Contrast Review.

Message Body:  I think my cat, Louis, can see other dimensions.

–

This mail was sent via the anonymous tip form on High Contrast Review http://highcontrastreview.com/contact/anonymous

Response: It’s quite possible your cat sees in other dimensions, sure. I’m really in no position to argue this, for to do so would be a super lame buzz kill.  In fact, your cat probably does see in other dimensions. Now please don’t take offense, but this reminds me of a phone conversation I had with the surrealist painter Luke Lamar a few months ago.

I mentioned that some scientists in some article had hypothesized, as scientists in articles are known to do, something about the texture of the universe.  In fact, I think they said it was spongy.  Luke then mentioned something about other scientists who thought the universe was shaped like a doughnut.  Neither of these ideas struck me as either right or wrong.  Imagine trying to do science about whether or not the universe is pretty, or what its favorite color is.  Agitated, I yelled back, “What are they doing conducting roundabout experiments about the texture and shape of the universe?  What about solving hunger?  Or finally inventing flying cars?  What is wrong with them?”

The texture and shape of the universe, like other dimensions, don’t actually concern most people on a day to day level.  It’s kind of like the way most people who say they see ghosts or UFOs are probably full of shit and would love to talk about it over a beer, your treat.  But the life of an animal is simpler.  If Louis is seems to be seeing other dimensions, he probably isn’t lying just to get beer or his five minutes of fame.  (Metaphysical deceit tends to be a human trait.  Animals generally save trickery for more pragmatic objectives.)  Just the same, make sure he isn’t just hungry, or under the influence of any drugs.  If that all checks out, watch him closely see what you can learn about these other dimensions, and if you gain any further information, let us know.  Thanks for the tip.

- Angela Stardust

There is today, pupils, primarily one fact that we must all of us face if not explain, namely, that human language is here to stay, in spite of the movement toward its total eradication. The forces bent on supplanting human language with visual media appear to be enjoying great success and verging on the ultimate culmination of their purpose: mimicry, echolalia, kinesthetics and other assorted parrotisms. Yet, should you permit this lecture to function also as a lesson, they shall not reach their end, not as long as spare time affords our species the luxury of boredom. Profound ennui accompanied by even a single moment of reflection will prompt expression, not unnaturally as image, dance or some mindless reproduction, but naturally in the form of the kind of novelty that only our human language can innovate.

photo by Nick Craig

Have no fear that amusement will invariably capture every waking hour of the day and that sleep will evoke only dreams of previous entertainments. I understand fully that this prospect is your chief anxiety, that each and every one of you attending this gathering must irrevocably become a stockholder in the corporation profiting from the decease of human language, like some windfall paid out by insurance agencies. I press you to consider this eventuality the least of your cares: Make note that, when your own lives in due course grow unbearable under the weight of banality, you shall find a means to realize yourselves more articulately than the incomprehensible howl of a beast or the hackneyed phraseology of the ditto; trust that your birthright to rely on the bottomless well that human language offers you shall remain at your beck.

And as you are persecuted unimaginably for drinking from it, slake your thirsts mightily, shamelessly, and without regret or apology.

But keep securely in mind, I warn you, that as you are crucified for dressing thought in the garbs of utterance, it is not your human language that has made you a human; rather, your courage to speak uniquely, genuinely, solitarily, and your will to suffer excruciatingly for this courageousness designates your membership in the species.

By describing a state of affairs that holds of the world, as you see it, discerningly, and ascribing that description unto an entity that is most truly of the universe of discourse, you shall have paid your dues, the cost of which, in times such as these, is human life itself.

“Is it really worth the price?” you may be asking yourself, now, or even me.

My short answer is, you’ll never really know until you try it, and after that, of course, it will be much too late.

A more considered answer will be furnished in the next lesson; if we see each other then, I will appreciate that today you have learned at the very least to keep your thoughts to yourselves. And so ends lesson one.

::

Tully Thibeau is a professor of linguistics at the University of Montana, and a regular contributor to this project.

On Monday night I stepped out of my door in Leytonstone to go to the butchers. The air was alive with a chorus of sirens in broad daylight. It wasn’t even seven o’clock and all the shops were closing. My sleepy suburb is surround on all sides: East Ham, Ilford, Hackney and Walthemstow all erupted into this weird wave of looting and violence. We sat in our kitchen all night drinking whiskey and listening to traffic updates on the radio. Darkness fell and the madness spread. In the back garden you could smell burning in the air.

This financial institution's window was broken in the London Riots.

Saturday’s incendiary incident reminds me of the shooting of Jean Charles about six years ago. After the London bombings, police were so on edge that they chased a random Brazilian man and killed him in Stockwell tube station. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sean Duggan, on the other hand, was carrying a gun. We’ve yet to find out if he drew it. We now know he didn’t shoot it but this kind of situation is unusual enough in the UK to be seen as an execution. The explanation, I believe, lies in an atmosphere similar to that seen in the wake of the 7/7 bombings. In police’s eyes, it probably feels like the sky is falling in in certain parts of the country. This time, however, the terror emanates from poor urban boroughs.

There are economic explanations: A generation raised on imploding debt is now faced with cuts and austerity that do not seem to be timed for recovery. The gap between the rich and the poor is wide and getting wider and the dense nature of London means that prices don’t fall. The poor just get pushed out. I’m starting on a well paid job in a month and rents in the centre are outrageous. A third of my salary after tax will barely get me an apartment in a local authority building.

But there are less abstract reasons. Since moving to London, I have been relatively impressed by the fact that it’s an easy going place. Multiculturalism essentially leaves people to their own devices. But this bleeds into a public education system that no longer seems to care.

The result is that young people are not buying into the social system, yet they complain that it fails to pay out. It is a brutal calculation realised in gangs of feral thugs looting plasma screen TVs. They have no fear because they have nothing to loose.

Yesterday was the first day in 11 months of being here that I felt unsafe in this city.

::

Nick Craig is an environmental economist from the Green Isle, who now lives in London. He writes for High Contrast Review from time to time.

 by Samara Alpern

Bubbles are both fun and round. Any questions?

Let’s start with this fact:  Round things are fun.  Compare peas, for example, with broccoli.  Other fun foods: m&m’s, Isreali cous cous, and papaya seeds.  Well, I guess you don’t actually eat papaya seeds, but they look like rabbit poops, and that makes them hilarious.

Who doesn’t have fond memories of an older sister standing on your head in a netted playpen full of large primary-color pellets while your parents ignore your anguished shrieks and drink beer by the pitcher?  No?  Well, I feel sorry for you then.  But those of us who are blessed with those memories have to nod our heads in agreement and say, yes, those ball pits are sound evidence that round things are fun (…Wait – maybe it was me standing on my sister’s head?  Yes, that would make more sense…Fun!).

How about when you saw a bean bag chair ripped open for the first time?  Don’t lie and say it was anything less than a delight.

Snow balls.  Gumballs.  Baseballs.  Giving someone blue balls.  Good times!  Breasts are round, and they are fun.  Balls we’ve already mentioned, but some people even think they are fun without turning them blue.  And  to those people who think breasts are the most fun, and to those who think balls are the most fun:  You’re both right!  Round things are fun.

Anyway, this not even remotely comprehensive list of evidence is to remind you:  There is a curvature to happiness.

So, how can this be applied?  I’m not sure.  But the shape of happiness is a fact we just proved.

Walking with beauty and grace
A dandelion puff dancing gently in the breeze
How quickly that pretty façade can fly apart
Living by one breath, one road
That’s all you know how to do
But you’ll do it with style
So many mistakes but the best choices
Desires have welled up and been fulfilled
Yet you still long
Needing vibrancy, a sweeter taste
You look for a new start, a new town
Of broken dreams and unforeseen pleasure

Ana Fatturi is, among other things, a poet and photographer living in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Special thanks to UPRISE, the Berrics, Erin Blinn & Josh Russell

“i thought, that’s the most stupidest idea i ever heard.  but fuck it, i’m down.”

was the first thought of 18 year old angel alvarado when he heard the plan.  the plan was to get out of the city, as far out as they could, across the country… by skate board.

..determination.

it started with a literal run in with the cops.  a smashed leg and a new metal rod.  alex got smoked by thecop.  but as life often goes, this set back made a great thing possible.  the settlement that ensued gave alex the opportunity to set sail across the country with a group of pals.  fresh out of high school.  on the fifteenth of june, 2010 six kids set out from chicago fueled with determination on their skate boards.

they skated from chicago to san diego.  literally, and when they weren’t skating they walked.  mostly along route 66.  walking up the mountains, skating down them (crashes were plenty), skating across deserts and plains towards san diego.

but before the courageous boys had even escaped chicagoland, mike was struck by an oncoming car. (getting hit by cars seems to be a bit of a theme in this story).  don’t worry though, they’re both up and skating towards san diego at this very moment.  but this blow leaves mike back in chicago for a couple of months.  another one of the boys took the opportunity to catch a ride back to town in mike’s rescue car, leaving four for the trip.  angel, pawel, alex and andy redistributed the 90 pounds of equipment between themselves and set out again, undaunted and determined.

..motivation.

it was an escape. in one form or another for each person on the mission.  an escape from what life as they knew it had to offer to them.  and a chance to see what else might exist.  each skated away from perpetuating misery in some fashion.  some of them skated away from the unrestful ideals of the city; “the coffee, ties, suits and hating life”.  others had used skateboarding as an escape from gang life.  “if it weren’t for skateboarding, i’d probably be gangbanging.”  skateboarding was not only angel’s first love, chances are good that it was his saving grace.  Having the support of his older sister and a few friends he continued doing what he wanted, facing heavy opposition.

so standing opposed to what they knew to be true, the young men set about to do something bigger. their weapons of choice included 16  63mm. wheels, 4 decks, 1 set of new bearings each (reds will apparently last 18,000+ miles), a portable grill, a crappy hand held GPS and some camping gear. they skated for the most part straight across route 66 and on a good day they would get about 60 miles.  when it was raining, or they were climbing up a pass, they walked.  as the daylight hours decreased with the onset of winter they made about 40 miles a day, avoiding anymore car accidents.

by the time they made it to colorado mike had healed enough from his run-in to jump on a board again.  he set out in his pick up truck and met up with everyone.  another friend was acquired for the trip in colorado.  ryan joins the crew, catching a train and escaping his own troubles at home.

to overcome life with the vigor and determination of an 18 year old involves much.… countless crashes,  snake holes,  lots of canned food,  walks up mountains,  police run-ins,  a yellow ball,  a grandma in the desert,  turning 19,  meeting heros, and most of all continuing to do what you want, no matter who’s telling you, you cannot.  this is precisely the ingredients these young men mixed for the adventure.  they stopped together in the deserts of Arizona and visit a friend’s grandma.  the vortexes of sedona are a more spiritual stop on the journey… maybe not as spiritual though as the berrics.

the berrics is a small private skate park, owned by and for the most part reserved to skate board professionals.  the guys at the berrics opened their widely reputed, and highly exclusive doors for the boys.  giovanni reda even said that these kids deserved to be skating there more than any pro and skating the berrics “felt like a dream” angel and mike tell me while holding their heads in disbelief.  they got to meet skaters they had donned their heros as children.  they were invited to come back and skate the next day.  and beyond that they welcomed the guys to camp out that night.  not much sleep was had.

they are hoping to make it home before christmas & surprise their families.  this trip is something that angel and alex are planning on doing again. they are working on getting some sort of sponsorship in order to raise money for a cause.  no one had taken much interest in the group to begin with, not believing they would actually skate across the country.  (now impossible to deny though with proof of daily footage), the skaters are hoping to be able to attract more attention next time around.  the cause is to be determined but may possibly be to create a skate park specifically for troubled youth of chicago.  chicago is one of the most violent cities in the u.s. for children and students with much of this violence stemming from gangs.  skate parks are located scarcely through the city to date.  most of those that do exist are a luxury and few cater in any way to kids who cannot pay a fairly hefty price to skate.  angel and his brother-in-law are also in the process of starting up their own skateboard company.  keep an eye out for ‘first love’ boards in the future.

In defense of illusion, we must of course begin with the question, why reality? What is so special about reality anyway? What has reality done for you lately? Really ask yourself that question. You may come up with the answer “not a hell of a lot”.

Reality is not only ineffectual, but it’s also depressing. Even worse than those two things, Reality is rather boring – which is, as we all know, an unforgiveable sin. Reality’s main function is to box us in, give us borders by which we are able to define our lives. But reality’s borders are undependable – they are slightly untrue at best, and typically they are totally false. Stereotypes and assumptions manifest the true face of Ultimate Reality. And Ultimate Reality? Well kids, it’s a drop of gold in a sea of silver. Good luck finding it. Reality suppresses our emotional responses, makes the soul hard and makes most situations more difficult. In short, reality ruins our fun.

Illusion gets us through hard times. When we are especially depressed, ready to jump off something elevated to end it all – it is illusion that sweeps up to us, catching us before we hit the ground. Fantasizing about what could have been and could be is a well needed break – and often times, it shows us the path through the dark forest, into the clearing.

Illusion is creation personified. Or maybe not personified. Okay, yeah, definitely not personified. But it is creation! Illusion is the first step – opening our minds to what does not exist. Creation is paramount.

The internet is illusion personified. The internet is the greatest mass murderer in history: Newspapers, Magazines, Television, Movies, Libraries, Bookstores – all these things and more have or will fall under the sword of the internet. The future lies in the internet. It’s the repository of all knowledge on the planet and what do we do with it? Look up porn and play Farmville! It’s amazing! We use the mass of all human knowledge to distract ourselves and bring our minds to different worlds. The future lies in illusion.

Illusion will prepare us for the future by supporting our impulse to plan for the unforeseen and be prepared for it. This instinct is often called paranoia – Paranoia, the ability to use ones imagination to think up new and horrible things. Sounds awful doesn’t it? But without this illusionary instinct we would never have so many safeguards in place for when that awful thing actually DOES happen. Like all those bomb shelters people built in the 50’s…or right before Y2K…or right before 2012. Okay, maybe this isn’t the strongest of arguments…

Illusion does no one any harm. It’s the Marijuana of mental vices. No violence occurs as a direct result of it. Only wasted time. And you might live in the real world forever and waste plenty of time anyway. So why not live in a world of your own creation?

Life is an illusion. We are all illusions talking to illusions living in an illusion. Now, how does it make any sense what so ever, to depend upon reality? I mean really. Reality has/will/is failing us. Don’t give it the satisfaction. Close your eyes. If we ignore it, it will probably go away.

To read Part One of Slow Revolutions, click here

View from a bus window, somewhere between Strasbourg and Paris, France. By Caroline McCarty

I always used to sleep as a passenger on cars or busses; passing the hours is easier when I am unconscious, closed off from the world in a hunk of metal hurtling through space. Now I am alert, staring out the window of this bus in wonder. We move over the earth and roll up the sides of mountains with ease and speed as one man presses a gas pedal. In my mind I can see the energy being used to move us – it comes from the pipes beneath our feet, the trucks that delivered the fuel to the gas station, the complex oil refinery where people turned crude into refined, and it comes from billions of years of being in the earth, all to take me home. My legs remain idle below me, strong and restless.

I stored my bike at a friend’s house in Missoula after the course and got a ride to the Greyhound bus station. The bus was late and all I could think about was how I could have slept in longer. I sat in a plastic bench seat for over two hours waiting for the bus to come, trying to stay awake and fall asleep at the same time. I ended up somewhere in between, blurry-eyed and my head in a fog. At least I’ve got clean clothes on, I thought, with sleeves hiding the bandage covering my elbow. Somewhat presentable I stepped aboard my ride home, a metal and plastic transporter to hurtle me 367 miles in six long hours.

The bus was crowded. All seats but the one in the back, the one next to the lavatory, were taken. With a deep breath I walked down the aisle past sleeping passengers who took up two seats. One lady had an eagle feather with bead work on it in her hair, similar to ones some Native Americans wear. On second glance I notice that it was actually a car air freshener and smelled artificial vanilla wafting above the various body odors stewing around me. I plopped down next to a man with a Big Gulp and shoved my bag under the seat in front of me. As I looked around me and then to my right at the lavatory wall, I was glad I at least had something to lay my head against. The engine flared on and together we all moved in one vehicle.

What followed was a tragic comedy in which I had to hold the lavatory door shut while the bus wound its way up the mountain pass. If I failed to keep the flood gate closed, a vile odor leaked out and passengers turned their heads in disgust as they sneered at me. Eventually the man sitting next to me got up to help and, with me holding his Big Gulp, used a discarded paper cup to jam the door closed. We all felt victorious until a man got up and headed for my direction. After destroying our craftsmanship he stayed in for 20 minutes. We knew it wouldn’t be good when he came out.

Part of me wanted to start grabbing luggage from the rack above peoples’ heads and cramming up against the door. Don’t let him out! I thought. But out he came, leading a waft of old and new shit. Lucky for me we were moments away from out first stop. Some people got off in St. Regis and I moved up to an empty seat and tried to collect myself. Overwhelmed by the experience of being in a motor vehicle with dozens of other people and moving too fast to know what was outside the bus in the air and the land, I decided to try to sleep.

All I can think about now is how today I woke up in Missoula and will go to bed 367 miles away. The transport is abrupt. I’m not ready, I’m moving too fast. What was that we passed? What does it smell like outside? Are there frogs here, too? With no answers, no way to put on the brakes, I put in my headphones and close my eyes.

* * *

The adjustment to living apart from my bike and being home was hard. I had a fight with my dad about driving. I don’t fight with my parents and I never really have – I wasn’t too hormonal as a teenager and we have always been very close and communicate openly. My parents live seven miles out of town, however, and after days of watching them drive to and from town multiple times, I blew up. I picked up my dad from work, pulled over and started yelling. The argument began over his use of paper cups instead of a reusable thermos I got him, I believe, and went to hell from there in a tirade. Rage consumed me as I shouted “Fuck you!” and “you don’t get it, do you?” and “I don’t care what it takes, I’m not going to be part of the problem!” I even banged on the steering wheel.

As my fury settled and time passed, I came to understand the limits of how much each of us can do to make the world a better place, to be part of the solution. Not driving is one of the best ways I can limit my impact on the earth; to not drive is easy. The amount my parents drove was like nails on a chalk board to me. Even though I knew they simply don’t have enough time to commute to town on bike after getting my brother ready for school, I associated driving with nothing but a bad process, a bad product.

At the ExonMobil oil refinery we toured, workers wear hard hats, thick plastic protective eyewear, earplugs, face masks, full body suits, gloves and boots. They disappear and show up again amidst the labyrinth of pipes. Pipes caked in black grease and dust. Pipes that would melt your hand if you touched them. Pipes that transfer deadly gases that leech into water sources. We toured the facility in a van, not permitted to roll down the windows because of the particulate matter in the air. We never actually toured the inside of the maze but circled on a path in between the mechanized and the natural, the dirty and the clean, the toxic and the nourishing. Our tour guides directed our attention to osprey nests on manufactured platforms on the outside. It’s their way of compensating for what is on the inside where crude oil becomes butane, methane, and gas. Trucks come to get the gas and take it to various stations where people come to fill up, to fuel their transport, to emit toxins that are slowly eating away the world I love.

Back in Missoula for a final semester, I eat a good breakfast of oatmeal with nuts and cranberries and fuel up for my morning commute. I am reminded daily in looking at the panniers on my back wheels and in the mirror at my left elbow, that anything really is possible; despite the option to ride the 700 plus miles through Montana in a safe, warm car in hours compared to weeks, I chose to pedal and came away with beautiful scars. For now I ride my bike, because I can. Maybe some day I won’t be able to as much, my life will be too busy with a real job and kids, but I sense a revolution coming. Some day we may all be rewarded for not using oil to get from one point to another, and we will have the time for healthier commutes, or at least a different kind of road trip.

Katie Pritchard is a fanatic of the outdoors and the education it has to offer us. She originates from Walla Walla, Washington, and currently resides in Missoula, MT.

It is a hard place. You live on the same land for generations and never really know it. It can turn against you. Everything is under the weather, the weather will always win; it is a Big Sky. You can live there all your life and hike over every inch of the ‘foot hills’ (mountains out here) that make up your back yard and they will surprise you. You call yourself well traveled; but how many rivers do you know? How many ranges of those mountains and foothills can you name?

Say them to yourself: Absaroka, Bear-tooth, Tobacco Root, Wolf, Swan, High Wood, Teton, Sawtooth, Mission, Seeley, Pintlar, Anaconda, Cabinet, Cascade.

It is a place founded on blood and iron, a lust for gold, silver; desire for mastery of the untamed wilderness. Even now, we are its mercy, or lack thereof. You asked me why I wanted to leave, and I say I felt walled in, mountains on all sides. You ask me why I want to leave here, and I say ‘because I feel walled in’. You say you want to be nearer to the water, I say I want the real sea. You wonder what there is to do for a living. I say, you can raise livestock, you can fight fire, you can cut down trees, you can teach. You can write when you have the money, or you’re broke.

Pioneer, Rattlesnake, Bridger, Blackfoot, Gallatin, Clark’s Fork, Marias, Powder, Tongue, Mussel Shell, Clearwater, Missouri, Sun, Thompson, Kootenai, Madison, Bitterroot.

I explain that while the teachers teach, in the summer they will fight fires. Cutting down trees is something you will end up doing regardless. And fighting fires. When the writer is not teaching, he or she is a sometimes a river guide.

Say their names, Yellowstone, Bighorn, Milk, Poplar, Flathead, Boulder, Big Hole, and Wise.

We have some of what you have; the meth, the cops, the bankers (though they’re likely raising livestock also), even a skyscraper or two if ten or twenty stories count. I should have said something about the construction worker. Blood and iron; only it isn’t in the mountains. I say the mountains are not big, two or three thousand feet nearest to town, twelve thousand at the tallest, taller than here.

Sapphire, Ruby, Judith, Red Rock, Two Medicine, Crazy Mountains, Granite, the Big and Little Belts, the Gravely, the Snowcrest, and Glacier.

You ask me if money were no object where would I go. I say Norway, Ireland, Patagonia, Peru, and Morocco. I did not say Australia, or Hungary, and maybe- and I do not remember how you replied. Except that the sound of your voice, overpowered by the cut-time tempo of the subway tracks, was far away.

Flathead, Lewis, Whitefish, Jefferson, Smith, Dearborn and Beaverhead.

You wonder if I am homesick, I say maybe so. You are wondering about the things I miss, the space: how the walled in feeling vanished for a while the first time I returned after living here, and you speak as if it is an alien thing. I try to explain how spring – but I wonder for an instant if maybe you don’t know more about it than I do.

A.Sønju works with various mediums; light, glue, paper, pigment, noise and language, generally leaning toward the practices of film making, photography, and writing. As of autumn 2010, he will be pursuing a Masters Degree at the Centre for Digital Media in Vancouver, BC.