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Adelaide Literary Magazine No.7 Volume One_Summer2017

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Published by ADELAIDE BOOKS, 2017-05-30 03:54:30

Adelaide Literary Magazine No.7 Volume One_Summer2017

Adelaide Literary Magazine No.7 Volume One_Summer2017

Revista Adelaide

Jacobsen at a dance she aƩended, where Jacob- “Sí, I mean yes, I’m sure she did. He told her eve-
sen played in the band, the very week he learned rything, I’m sure. He loved her so much. He al-
of his wife’s new relaƟonship. A visiƟng professor ways wanted to share everything with her. Yes, I
who specialized in fast-spreading viruses, Dr. think he told her everything—his every thought,
López fell for Jacobsen immediately and set about his every feeling.”
wooing him, albeit without much success. She
completed her visiƟng professorship and returned “Did he tell her he loved you?”
to Barcelona three months aŌer Brian Jacobsen
vanished. “Yes,” Dr. López said, her eyes brimming,
“I’m sure he did. He would have put it in context
“If she didn’t kill him directly, she killed though, would have explained that his love for me
him by breaking his heart,” Dr. López insisted, the wasn’t even a Ɵny fracƟon of his love for her.
first Ɵme we met. “He deserved beƩer. He de- What a pity she didn’t appreciate that—at least
served me.” She repeated those thoughts almost Brian would be alive and happy, even if I couldn’t
every Ɵme we met. have him with me.”

In our third or fourth meeƟng, and with no Dr. López’s tears ended that interview. In
aƩempt at gallantry, I said, “You’re obviously two of our last sessions, she revealed something I
beauƟful and intelligent. Why didn’t he go with had long suspected. “He said that, if she did ulƟ-
you?” mately decide to end their marriage and make a
life with Alex, he knew the pain would be more
Tears welled in Dr. López’s eyes, as she than he could bear.”
said, “He was too much in love with his wife.”
She paused and took several deep breaths. “He “Was he suicidal?” I asked, with increased
told me he loved me. He said ‘Te amo’ and ‘Te alertness.
quiero’—he spoke a liƩle Spanish—and I think he
really meant it. But he also said he loved Darling “He wasn’t a suicidal person,” Dr. López
so much he could never promise to say ‘No’ to answered. “By then, I knew him well enough to
her if she asked him to come back.” She paused know that. At the same Ɵme, I knew he loved
for more steadying breaths and conƟnued, “I Darling so much that the pain was already almost
hoped I could convince him otherwise. I hoped I unendurable. I did worry that any more might
could make him forget all about her, if I could be prove too much for him.”
his lover for a few weeks—but then he disap-
peared.” “Mrs. Jacobsen told me she did move in
with Alex and ask her husband for a divorce.”
In another meeƟng, Dr. López told me, “I
rang him between lectures almost every day— “Yes,” Graciana López said in a voice al-
someƟmes two or three Ɵmes a day—whenever I most too soŌ to hear, “he told me that in one of
knew Darling wasn’t around. That was easy, be- our last ’phone calls.”
cause she was almost always at Alex’s apartment.
Brian was wonderful to talk with, and not just That session also ended in tears, and the
because I was in love with him. He was interested conversaƟon conƟnued the next day. “Do you
in everything and a very intelligent man.” think Brian Jacobsen took his own life?” I asked.

“And he apparently enjoyed talking with Dr. López nodded and said, “Yes. If she
you.” didn’t kill him, he did.”

“Sí, he did. He really did love me, I think, When I returned from Europe, I received a
but not enough.” message from Brian Jacobsen's distant neighbor
Ray urging me to contact him. When I did, he
“Not enough for you?” said he wanted me to meet his cousin Joelene.
We arranged a meeƟng, and Ray introduced me
“No, no! Not enough for him! Not enough to Joelene, who said, “I think you should talk with
to suppress his pain over Darling.” my friend Moira. She was a friend of the Jacob-
sens, and I think she might be able to help you.”
“Did she know that?” I asked.
Of course, I wasted no Ɵme arranging to
meet Moira. I met her and Joelene at the same

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Adelaide Magazine

“I soon realized,” he went on, “that I could do invited, all the arrangements were made. I made
even beƩer. I contacted my brother back in the my own plans to be there.”
Philippines and we agreed to go in together as
partners.” “So what happened,” I said, sensing that he was
about to answer my unspoken quesƟon.
“Partners in what?” I asked.
He went on. “One night a few weeks before the
“In my business. I was going to conƟnue the im- wedding, my brother and his fiancé were out to
port and sales operaƟon in the U.S. He would dinner and they got into a terrible fight. They
manage the Philippines end.” broke off the engagement and parted angrily,
vowing never to see one other again. My brother
“And what was that?” I said. drove back to the farm in a terrible state of agita-
Ɵon. He went to bed, but tossed and turned and
“We looked around and found some farmland couldn’t sleep. Finally at about two in the morn-
that was for sale.” ing, he got up and drove back to town. He felt
that he and his fiancé had not finished their con-
“In the Philippines?” I asked? versaƟon. This turned out to be the most im-
portant decision he ever made in his life.”
“Yes,” he said. “It was very ferƟle farmland. We
bought it and converted it to ginger. We hired a “Because it saved his marriage?” I said.
foreman and crew to operate it. We even built a
barracks to house the workers.” “Yes,” said the driver. “But not in the way you
might think. Remember, I told you the land was
“It sounds expensive,” I said. ferƟle?”

“It was,” he said. “But by then, I owned properƟes We turned north on the Glendale Freeway, ten
in this country. I mortgaged them to the hilt to minutes from home.
buy the farm. Within a year, it was producing gin-
ger and making a profit.” “Yes,” I said. “I remember.”

“Sounds like you became your own supplier,” I “Well,” the driver conƟnued, “the reason it was
said. ferƟle was that it was at the base of a large
mountain.”
“Not really,” he said. “The farm provided only a
small part of my supply. But we were making “What mountain,” I said, picturing alluvium flow-
money at it and that was the point. And there ing down from the Sierra Nevada to decompose
were good prospects for expanding. We made and enrich California’s Central Valley.
offers on a few neighboring farms and made plans
to expand our operaƟons.” “Mount Pinatubo,” he answered.

“And did you expand?” I asked. “Mount Pinatubo?” I siŌed through my memory
for a moment. “Isn't that a volcano?”
“We did,” he answered. “We bought the adjacent
farm and hired more workers. The land was fer- “Yes.”
Ɵle. The crops were good. My brother is a good
manager and businessman. Things were going “And didn’t it…?” My voice trailed off.
well.” So why are you driving a taxi?
“Yes,” he said. “One hour aŌer my brother leŌ
The van passed smoothly through Downtown and the farm, the mountain exploded. Everyone at
past Dodger Stadium. I suddenly feared that we the farm was killed. The farm was buried under
might reach home without hearing the end of the twelve feet of ash. But by that Ɵme my brother
story. was in town, in the arms of his fiancé.

The driver went on. “During this Ɵme, my brother “Did you know the people who died?” I asked.
met and became engaged to a woman who lived
in the nearby town, about an hour's drive from “My brother and I knew them all. They were like
the farm. She was a fine woman and the family family to us.”
loved her from the start. A date was set for
the wedding, a church was reserved, people were “And the farm? Was there insurance?”

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Revista Adelaide

“Of course,” he said. “But insurance doesn’t cover to wake my wife and tell her the story I had just
volcanoes.” heard. I didn't, of course. It was aŌer one in the
morning. AŌer four in the Ɵme zone where I had
“It must have been a disaster,” I said. goƩen up. And it would be busy at the office to-
morrow.
“We lost everything,” he said. “Every penny we
had. Every property. In the Philippines. In Ameri- About the Author:
ca.”
John Davidson has a Ph.D. in Physics (Maryland
We pulled up to the curb in front of my house. 1974) and spent the bulk of his professional ca-
But I couldn’t budge. reer at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasa-
dena, CA. Between 1973 and 2011, he authored
“What will you do now?” I said. I immediately felt or co-authored twenty-eight arƟcles that ap-
foolish, since in the past forty-five minutes he had peared in professional science and engineering
shown me exactly what he was doing now. But if journals. In the past year, he has changed direc-
he was fazed by my quesƟon, he did not show it. Ɵon, with works of creaƟve non-ficƟon accepted
by SƟll Crazy, The MacGuffin, Joyland, and The
“We will start over,” he said in a cheerful voice. 3288 Review and works of ficƟon accepted by
“In the mean Ɵme,” he said, gesturing at the vehi- Calliope and Metonym. He lives today in reƟre-
cle, “I need an income.” He set my suitcase on the ment in La Crescenta, CA.
sidewalk and I paid him, adding a generous Ɵp. He
thanked me and got back in his van.

“Good night,” I said, as the van began to inch for-
ward.

Suddenly, I remembered one last quesƟon. I
stepped into the headlights and waved my arms.
He stopped and rolled down his window.

“Yes?” he said quizzically?

“Your brother,” I said, “what happened to him?”

“Oh, he and his fiancé made up. They're married
now. They have two kids. It's a good marriage.”

“Amazing!” I said. “Well, thanks again and good
luck.”

The driver put the van into gear. As his taillights
receded, I realized that I hadn’t even asked his
name. I wondered briefly whether his tale might
have been a fabricaƟon, concocted to entertain
passengers and bolster Ɵps. If so, then he had
missed his calling: he might have been a writer.

Then I dismissed the thought. His story was rich
with nuance and detail. I believed it. And I believe
that in Ɵme he seƩled his debts and began again.
But to what end? Did he resurrect his old busi-
ness? Or did he launch himself in some new direc-
Ɵon? It was the early nineƟes. Perhaps he be-
came a dot-comer and rode the boom to its crest.
And was his new venture a success? Or had the
magic deserted him?

The van reached the corner, turned, and was
gone. I was suddenly possessed by a great desire

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Adelaide Magazine

CICADAS

By Katy Major

If you live somewhere in the stretch between Periodical cicadas come along every seventeen
northeast Ohio—that’s where I am—and north- years. I don’t remember witnessing their first
west Virginia, I don’t have to tell you: the fiŌh emergence during my life—I was six. The next
brood has emerged. You can already hear their Ɵme they emerge, I’ll be thirty. Once every seven-
whirr and click in the morning and early aŌer- teen years seems like an eternal stretch; a pre-
noon, when they sing into the dense August air. cious rarity, a phenomenon one shouldn’t miss.
The ground bears the perforaƟons of their emer-
gence—where they clawed their way to the In a way, you can’t miss them. Cicadas are every-
earth’s surface like the living dead. If, like me, you where. Driving, I see them dart across my wind-
have invesƟgated thoroughly, crouching to over- shield. Walking the dog, my feet crunch over their
turn the backs of leaves, the undersides of rocks, corpses and exoskeletons. Drinking my coffee in
you see their shells—startling doppelgangers of the morning, I pad around barefoot, peering in-
the bugs themselves that they leave behind in quisiƟvely at the folds between ridges of tree-
what must be the most freeing sensaƟon of their bark and at the undersides of blades of grass and
lives, at least since their rise to the horizon be- there they lie, chirping loudly. Of course, their
tween earth and sky. omnipresence doesn’t exactly endear them to the
humans who cohabitate the lawns, public parks,
My friend Adam, who makes my amateur natural- and shallow woods where they dwell. People hate
ism look like a weak aƩempt at a hobby—his bugs—for reasons that are both cultural and evo-
brain locks in facts about the natural world with luƟonary—and cicadas are, by human standards,
an alacrity I could never match—anƟcipated the monstrous. They are around an inch and a half
cicadas’ arrival tremulously. During a family vaca- long, perhaps a half an inch thick around. Their
Ɵon to St. Thomas, he told a local: “Well, there’s eyes protrude dramaƟcally from their bodies—
kind of a big to-do where I’m from.” I’m sure that two bloodred globes. Their wings are as large as
the man was expecƟng a briefing on the Presiden- they are, webbed with russet veins, clicking furi-
Ɵal elecƟon underway, or perhaps a seedy local ously when they take off. Their legs are sƟcky,
scandal like last year’s exposé of the Ariel Castro seeming to permanently cement them where
kidnappings in Cleveland. But Adam meant the they rest. The rest of them is a dusty jet-black.
cicadas: “It’s a big deal where we’re from,” he People also mistake cicadas for bad luck: they are
explained. Okay. Bugs. someƟmes called locusts, though they look and
behave quite differently. The only similarity is
As funny as Adam’s solemnity on the maƩer their quanƟty—the swarm.
strikes me, he’s not wrong: the arrival of the cica-
das rings of portentousness, reminding me of the I know all this about cicadas—besides their rela-
giddy fluƩering in my chest I feel when a blood Ɵonship to locusts, which I had to research to
moon rises, or a tropical storm spits rain, or a confirm—from watching them, squinƟng into
famous poliƟcian passes through town. It has the their liƩle red eyes. I drink in the sight of them—
ring of once-in-a-lifeƟme—though that’s not true. they fascinate me, seemingly as exoƟc as a komo-
do dragon crawling down the driveway. Because

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Revista Adelaide

of their rarity, I feel a reverence for them that I The house where my mother and I live, for exam-
don’t generally reserve for the insects that fre- ple, is absurdly inauthenƟc—a plaster-and-wood
quent my backyard. It’s impossible not to feel concocƟon that calls to mind Pete Seeger’s 1960s
awe when you hear their song—or, more accu- hit—and, fellow millennials, the theme song to
rately, what sounds like a song to my untrained “Weeds”—“LiƩle Boxes”:
human ear, which is actually a cicada’s maƟng
call. There is no organic sound as deafening; sev- LiƩle boxes, on the hillside,
eral arƟcles I’ve read in the past few months warn
against June picnics, as the high-decibel noise of LiƩle boxes made of Ɵcky-tacky,
the insects can cause hearing damage. I would
happily go deaf listening to them, just as I would LiƩle boxes on the hillside,
happily blind myself staring at various solar phe-
nomena. When nature puts on a show, I’m loath LiƩle boxes all the same …
to miss out.
There’s a green one and a pink one
The cicadas sƟll have a month to Ɵck and purr
their way to reproducƟon, but already I feel a And a blue one and a yellow one,
seemingly absurd advance regret: I’ve missed too
much. Every second I’ve spent inside, windows And they’re all made out of Ɵcky-tacky
shut, TV blaring, has been a waste of precious
Ɵme—Ɵme when I could have been acquainƟng And they all look just the same …
myself with beings so special that I will only wit-
ness them another two Ɵmes in my life, three if They do. Our house is one of hundreds—if not
I’m extraordinarily lucky. I sit here, eyes glued to thousands—mocked up and built with astonishing
a laptop screen, hyper-aware of the faint murmur speed by the likes of Drees or Ryan Homes. The
of the cicadas’ song outside of my office’s closed suburb we live in, like so many suburbs, consists
window, and lament my own foolishness in of the same three or four home designs, recycled
squandering days of the cicadas’ reign in a sealed again and again by the same home-building com-
manmade shelter designed to force wilderness pany, closely side-by-side in a sprawl that extends
out. The cicadas only highlight a preexisƟng issue: over several streets. They vary, of course—in the
we people miss out on ripe discoveries that lie approximate shade of taupe that the homeowner
among the trees each and every day. Just because has chosen for the siding, whether expensive
fireflies emerge most nights out of the summer “add-ons” like a back deck have been purchased,
scarcely makes them any less precious. and in the caliber of the property’s landscaping
surrounding the house—but, sƟll, such minor
Against my own convicƟons, I willingly trade au- disƟncƟons are easy to overlook, and all seems
thenƟcity for arƟfice every day. I exist, alongside idenƟcal. It’s not the sixƟes, and no one would
others, in an arƟficial sphere: the world of man. dare choose a daring hue like yellow, much less
Maybe it has always been this way. Maybe it has pink.
been this way since the Industrial RevoluƟon,
when smoke replaced fluffy cumulonimbus in There’s such an ease to building or purchasing
ciƟes and Americans saw the advent of the sub- such a house—designing one is liƩle more than a
urb. Maybe it has been this way since the Post- personality quiz, driven by economic standing and
Industrial Boom aŌer World War II, when luxury taste; buying one is a maƩer of finding the house
became a commodity. I suspect it gets worse by in the neighborhood that is within budget, bal-
the day, that with every new modern conven- ancing an explicit formula between expense and
ience, people move farther and farther from what good taste. Granted, the challenge is in being
originated here on earth, what was given to us saƟsfied once you choose—and my mother is,
freely and guilelessly. It’s not all doom and gloom: understandably, disappointed with her choice in
much can be gained from technology. There’s no retrospect; the extraordinarily low price for our
arguing that. SƟll, a certain distance from authen- four-bedroom home now seems perfectly suited,
Ɵcity widens and widens. given the cheap fridge that won’t close all the
way unless you shove it, hard, with one shoulder,
and the air condiƟoning unit that breaks every
few months, and the stovetop that unevenly
cooks, burning whatever is on the stove more

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Adelaide Magazine

oŌen than not. “You get what you pay for,” she paradox which calls to mind psychological repres-
someƟmes laments. She says, wisƞully: “I’ve nev- sion. Wilderness is our origin, but we refuse to
er felt ‘at home’ here.” face it—like the developing child, we reject our
parent (planet). Instead of covering the features
I wonder if the contemporary ease with which we we’ve inherited from our mother with make-up or
choose our homes is parƟally to blame. I think of breaking up the surface with plasƟc surgery, we
houses I’ve read about, well-loved and construct- cover the all-too-familiar plane of the earth with
ed with care: Laura Ingalls Wilder’s wood-frame spectacular architectural wonders and enormous
family home on Rocky Ridge Farm, Bilbo Baggins’ blacktops where we can park our terrifically luxu-
cozy Hobbit-hole, Mr. Toad’s elaborate Toad Hall. rious cars.
Each one is carved from nature, seemingly not to
the detriment of the forestry or plains which sur- Freud argued that in order for children to grow
round them but, rather, in a sort of unspoken and develop into adults, they needed to first re-
harmony with nature. But it’s too simplisƟc to press strong feelings of aƩachment that they
romanƟcize the homes in storybooks, which are, were born with and replace them with either cas-
of course, really constructed from ink and paper traƟon-anxiety (for people born with penises) or a
and designed to inspire such feelings of warmth fierce rejecƟon of the mother’s lack (for people
and comfort. (Only Laura Ingalls Wilder’s home, born without them). With strong feelings of fear
of these three examples, is “real,” and even her and loathing, the developing child can properly
stories notoriously wind up being more ficƟon individuate without being tempted back to the
than fact.) Children’s books, too, aren’t to be re- warmth and aƩachment of infancy. The process
lied on for objecƟve analysis: they carry nostalgia serves its purpose for adolescents, of course—
secondhand even without my foolish romanƟciz- assuming you subscribe to even this somewhat
ing. I have to admit that I’m even skepƟcal of my- innocuous Ɵdbit of Freudian psychoanalyƟc theo-
self here: where is the logic, exactly, in stacking ry—but I sense that as a society we have gone too
logs and slicing lumber and nailing in everything far in individuaƟng from the earth itself, designing
from door-hinges to windowsills by hand when, a world exactly counter to the one we have
today, the middle class can afford to hire an ex- walked since the beginning of Ɵme. What’s more,
pert to build more quickly and less expensively? even true repression should not become a perma-
Who says that authenƟcity lies on the other side nent state—there’s a reason why rebelliousness
of a laborious, lengthy process of construcƟon? fades away as people age. As adults, we don’t
resent our parents with the ferocity of our teen-
The inconveniences of even building one’s own age selves—the affecƟon that was so much less
home—I mean, actually building one’s own home, apparent to us then returns and, although cross-
not as shorthand for “hiring other people to build generaƟonal relaƟonships are rarely easy, things
a home”—seem to outweigh whatever benefits I tend to improve as Ɵme goes on.
speculate could result. I can almost see it if I think
hard enough: the sunburn from hours of roof- Perpetual repression, on the other hand, is tor-
building, the bruises from a misaimed hammer, turous, an unpleasant combinaƟon of discomfort
scrapes from rogue boards. The aching muscles. and confusion, like trying to decipher the image
The exhausƟon. The jaw-clenching stress. I live in on an incomplete jigsaw puzzle. What you don’t
an age of relaƟve luxury—at least for the middle consciously see—what you don’t consciously
class—and I never need to leave the temperature know—can sƟll haunt you. I believe that I best
-controlled, bug-free, cushioned living room in my understand things through observaƟon, but it’s
mother’s house if I don’t feel compelled to. It’s a difficult to see through the web of gas staƟons,
great privilege, one I should not take for granted telephone poles, parked cars, lawn ornaments,
for even one second—especially when the mod- billboards, and exhaust that so oŌen consƟtutes
ern world sƟll includes expanses of undeveloped the outdoors. It’s easier to pull up a livestream of
naƟons where luxuries are few and homes are a baby animal online than it is to see one in the
more likely to be constructed of mud and grass forest, which is now so thin, or in the plains,
than cheap lumber and eggshell paint. which are now blanketed with concrete. Fortu-
nately, I can Google what a whippoorwill sounds
SƟll, I find myself troubled by the irony of shiver- like, because I encounter few in our packed liƩle
ing in air condiƟoning in ninety-degree heat, a suburb—as opposed to their constant, musical

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