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Global City Review Nothing is Simple j QIQIG ISSUE NUMBER TWENTY-ONE »SPRING/SUMMER 20 FOUNDING EDITOR Linsey Abrams SENIOR AND MANAGING EDITOR Robin Blair POETRY EDITOR Michelle Valladares FICTION EDITOR Edith Chevat CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Rebecca Allard, Susan D 'A loia, Peggy Garrison, Greta Herzenszat, Alex Maurice a n d Laura Schofer COVER DESIGN Mona Jimenez EVENTS COORDINATOR Adrienne Anifant SUBSCRIPTIONS & CIRCULATION Rebecca A lla rd and Laura Schofer INTERN Ana Mercedes Ortiz GLOBAL CITY REVIEW Nothing is Simples s p r i n g /s u m m e r 2009 NUMBER TWENTY-ONE COPYRIGHT © 2009 BY GLOBAL CITY PRESS ALL RIGHTS REVERT TO AUTHORS UPON PUBLICATION. G lobal City Review is published twice yearly. ALL CORRESPONDENCE SHOULD BE SENT TO: GLOBAL CITY REVIEW THE SIMON H. RIFKIND CENTER FOR THE HUMANITIES THE CITY COLLEGE OF NEW YORK 138™ STREET AND CONVENT AVENUE n e w Y o r k , n y 10031 w e b s i t e : w w w .w e b d e l s o l .c o m /globalcityreview subscriptions : $16 FOR ONE YEAR / $30 FOR TWO YEARS international : $25 / $45 institutions : $25 / $50 INDIVIDUAL COPIES: $8.50 MAKE CHECKS PAYABLE TO GLOBAL CITY REVIEW. ISBN: 1-887369-23-6 ISSN: 1068-0586 GLOBAL CITY REVIEW IS PUBLISHED WITH THE ONGOING SUPPORT OF THE SIMON H. RIFKIND CENTER FOR THE HUMANITIES AND OF INDIVIDUAL CONTRIBUTORS. DESIGN BY CHARLES NIX Contents Editor’s Note v Introduction vi MEMOIRS An Apology to Lisa Minnelli by Sara W hitney Williams 15 Cat of Nine Tales by Helen Boyd 40 PHOTO ESSAY Photographing in Harlem by Lewis Watts 49 POEMS The Voice of the Courtyard at the American Colony Hotel by Elana Greenfield 1 A Turncoat by Ann Lauinger 14 Cortes 26 California 27 by Cynthia Cruz The Playwright 37 Happiness 38 by Michael Klein science by Jacklyn Janeksela 5 2 PUZZLE Nothing is Simple by Janice M. Putney 25 Puzzle solution 55 STORIES The Catalyst (novel chapter) by Alfred Corn 4 The Movie of Your Life by B. Brandon Barker 3 ° Winning the Game by Paul Oppenheimer 56 Contributors 76 Upcoming Issues 79 Global City Backlist 8 0 Editor’s Note THIS ISSUE IS DEDICATED TO MARILYN FRENCH, DISTIN- guished novelist, feminist theorist and historian, and inspi ration to women of many generations and backgrounds all over the world. Author of the landmark 1977 novel The Women’s Room, Marilyn changed the landscape of how women thought about themselves and their lives, thus opening up possibilities for all of us. The Women's Room sold two million copies and was published in 20 countries. Over 30 years later, it is being reissued within the next few months by Penguin Group USA, with Forewords by my self and Dorothy Allison, and a new Preface by the author. W e mourn the loss of a beloved friend. Her work and be ing lives on. LINSEY ABRAMS {*} Introduction PRESIDENT OBAMA HAS SERVED FOR OVER IOO DAYS. FOR some he has been heroic, more left of center than imag ined. For others he has been too conservative, and not done enough. The economic crisis which began with a bit of mortgage fraud in our banks, amongst our financiers, has now reached global proportions, and journalists use num bers in the billions and trillions. Each one of us knows someone out of work, recently fired, or others worried about losing their jobs in the future. There are earthquakes in China and wildfires rage through the Western U. S. In Buddhism, it is taught that the realization of all our poten tial, our buddha nature, is simple. All we need to do is control our own mind by the practice of patience, generos ity and kindness. So is it simple or deceptively complex the fixing of banks, environment and our minds. As writers we can only begin in our present moment, the sitting, the clicking of keys on a computer, the coffee or tea in a mug. The simple acts of re-imagining a world where nothing is simple, are the beginnings of change. MICHELLE YASMINE VALLADARES { v i } The Voice of the Courtyard at the American Colony Hotel by Elana Greenfield ( N YC, 2007) If you give yourself to me you will never find out who you are Actually, you are no one The light gold thirsty landscape is quenched Order your coffee the waiter is here. If you rest in my arms If you rest in my arms which are made of gardens and the play of light on stone archways all across the east you will never do anything with your life. {Your fate w ill be bougainvillea endlessly exploding towards the Mediterranean sky Your fate w ill be honeysuckle and evening air} All kisses start in the citrus tree It is all one kiss— it travels. I am not impressed with the high oak doors or the missionaries from Savannah they are both dangerously stable. In particular there is one missionary who works in the GLOBAL CITY REVIEW Hotel Europa She has lived in the old city for fifty years. Remember the connection between heat and death— one must give in All kisses begin in the citrus tree It is all one kiss— it travels. When the sand stops blowing camels open confoundingly pretty eyes in which there is a story so long and so hilarious that everything falls silent in the bliss of its unfolding. There is no event, only laughter. History is as you sit in the shade just out of the blindingness of Yerushalaim Your grandfather mourns his wife and your mother her mother there is a perfectly intact ice-cube in the middle of the desert This is your forehead This is your eye Remember the connection between heat and love— one must give in. Order more coffee the waiter is here. I am not impressed with the high oak doors or the missionaries from Savanna they are both dangerously stable. Your fate is bougainvillea endlessly exploding up towards the GREENFIELD • THE VOICE OF THE COURTYARD Mediterranean sky. Your fate is honeysuckle and evening air. Remember the connection between heat and love— one must give in. At one moment you walk along the water And the next you are gone When asked your name: say Rasputin When asked why you came: say for the waters When you are told the city is landlocked Say you were misinformed Look at your hands— you are quite high above the ground— look at your hands it w ill not matter Say you are Fatmah Say you are the woman who does the laundry in the grove Say your face is tattooed Say your father is a majnun You are, as is everyone, a trunk around which the invisible vines of the Middle East grow Sit perfectly still It is already happening And you don’t need to know what it is And you can’t say what it is Look at your hands— you are quite high above the ground Look at your hands 1 3 1 The Catalyst by A lfr e d Corn MIRANDA TURNED TO LOCK UP, HOLDING THE SCREEN door partly open. Sunlight angled in from the south side of the porch, so that hard shadows, one of them hers, stood out against the front porch’s blue-painted floorboards. A trembling needle of glare rebounded from the brass door knob— or rather a miniature sunburst of needles. Eye catching, and, anyway, she had this habit of interrogating her surroundings, as though a porch or a doorknob could be pregnant with meaning, could trigger a decision or an action. But you need a wide survey to turn up anything helpful. This morning’s message must be something mucky, to judge by a line of bird droppings speckling the stone steps down to the walk and the fact that a friendly dog had left his calling card on the lawn. Nothing espe cially enlightening, and Miranda wondered whether she or Rob would be saddled with clean-up detail. Meanwhile, spring-warmed earth and flower fragrances in the air were enough to distract anyone from the process of “stalking insights,” as Arlette constantly teased her for doing. W ell, that’s just the gentle satire of a friend, she explained to the internal scorekeeper. Still, I am too self-absorbed, which is why I have trouble ever making plans and carrying them out. Weird how that basic tentativeness clashed with her CORN- THE CATALYST own decisive body language, the direct gaze, the long neck she was often conscious of whipping around like an of fended swan when people behind her spoke or touched her shoulder. The house she and Rob had lived in for six years resembled every other overgrown bungalow in the neighborhood of Clifton. Not literally. For the McCarthys’ brick construc tion and square white columns, the place next door might substitute brown shingles and dark green window-frames, and the one next over, white clapboard and black shutters, but the effect was the same: all exhibited the dull patina of the proprietor’s quiet self-approval. It would be a mistake to expect anything else in the academic ghetto of Cincin nati, which counted professional blandness as one of the strongest arguments in favor of Clifton real estate. Miranda resided there, but it wasn’t home. Not the neighborhood, not Cincinnati, in fact, no location in the state of Ohio would ever seem anything but skin-deep to someone who had grown up in Brooklyn, with almost daily strolls along the Promenade, the vistas onto Manhat tan’s spiky lower tip grown so predictable that you stopped seeing them at all.