november

vienna was cold when i arrived.   a shadow of winter hung over the city and the shadow bit at my bare fingers and made me remember that i was alone.   i gathered this solitude and wrapped it around me, around my belly, the curve of my back and my bruised knees (the bluey knees of a perpetual faller) and it was soft, like cotton sheets and the tinkling of a piano.   for one week i lived alone in my empty apartment, toes sliding over cool wooden floors, eyes on blank, peeling walls.  the light creeping through the window in the morning was the only thing in my bed and i was in love with it, a cleaner love, without tears or regret or time wasted. 

i bought gloves, and a book that came with a big map and i kept them close to me in my yellow jacket.  i had hot wine and wandered for hours without purpose or destination under a grey sky that was grey just for me.  i met new people and smiled into my cup so they couldn't see my secret happiness. it snowed and they brought me to a party where i danced around and met someone who spoke english with an accent and asked for my phone number.  in the morning, when i boiled water, my limbs were so tired i wondered if i could face the world (be a bit braver).  i was brave, and we met in the wind and we walked through the darkening markets as i spun my map around and he asked directions at the bus stops.  we ate (so little) under strings of christmas lights in a warm, smoky basement (the stairs to which i fell down, how childish, how nervous).  we drank beer and flipped coasters and laughed and i hooked my arm easily in his… i felt freer in that place that was not mine to keep, and i felt my body against his, and we wished the time would not pass so quickly.

he left and the next days were cold as well. but the city was endless and spoke of beauty and stole me away in its stoicism and sensibility, reaching cathedrals and the weight of age.  i drifted down alleyways and through art galleries.  i stood and listened to hours of music and it gave me back something i never even realized was missing.

and now, alone again, in istanbul (my untamed lady, uncouth and raw) i am still cold from vienna and the chill reminds me of what i lost and found again and the growth of the world through small souls who try to be better.  

darkening air

this was in november, late november, as the weather and your mind starts to grey. the world slows around you and the winter light dawns on the bare branches. there is something about the empty spaces, something lonely, something stolen, stolen from the air and given to the ground.  

my brother and i, on an adventure, had parked in the woods, just off the main road so we could still see silhouettes of cars through the darkening air.  cold rain was starting to eclipse the clear air and our breath rose before our faces. fog seeped from the earth and cucooned us in its ghostly grasp. secrets were held and secrets fell in the drops around us.  

we stepped lightly through the thorns and they snapped and i could feel my brother right behind me. in the shadows of dusk, we followed a path shown only to us.  we came to a clearing where the ice met the roots of tall slate trees and through the ice we could see the shapes of lives past waiting for the spring thaw.  a train whistle, the call of a lone crow, we were miles from home. 

and though the light was low and the wind had stolen the warmth, there, in the darkening, silent air, i was happy with my brother.  words are not necessary between the closest souls, and just like the sun says nothing to the moon as they make their grand movements, i know he can hear me though we are miles apart.

HOME and why i have not written for 3+ weeks

we went to yalikavak and the Aegean was so lovely. and we ate and we ate and everything tasted of olive oil and salt.

we went to new hampshire later. and everything tasted up dew and sunshine.

life is easy in nh. it is unpretentious and the trees cradle you in their shade as the peepers call the night in.  it is lovely and my family is like peas and carrots and i miss them everyday.  

coming back to this big city is difficult for me; not culturally or physically, but mentally, spiritually. i was raised among trees not buildings, my body prefers 2 wheels to four, and the emptiness and silence of the world, to me, is beautiful; natural solitude and space are rare commodities in istanbul and i find that my skin craves the grass, the roughness of bark, my limbs the breath of wandering summer air, beach sand, resting on sun-baked stones.

living in a foreign place is exhilarating, illuminating, gratifying and i love the life that surrounds me; but, as im sure many wanderers would agree, the best part of being abroad is leaving, is the return to a smaller world, simple loves, the things that you hold with you wherever you go...home. 

yalikavak

this is the peninsula of land on which i have spent the last 4 days. the aegean is crystalline and warm, the sand holds histories in its miniature stones.  

i have eaten more than i care to discuss. alis parents are skillful persuaders and i always eat everything that is placed in front of me, much to my own detriment. 

but one of my favorite parts of this trip was the twisted aesop fable that alis parents told me.  it is a tale of august bugs and ants. there are eucalyptus trees everywhere here, used to soak up the water and keep the land from returning to its formerly swampy state, and in these eucalyptus trees live (what the turks call) august bugs. august bugs make a deep chirping noise, something akin to cicadas, that harmoniously emanate from the soft green, perfumed eucalyptus leaves. august bugs are a lazy, peaceful creature and they spend their summer months singing and sitting in the warm sea breeze, laughing at the ants toiling below in the aegean heat.  

however, the seasons do not last and soon the chill of fall nights settle upon the once comfortable homes of the august bugs.  and the august bugs are bewildered by their growing discomfort and agitated by their settling hunger.  

and as the nights grow colder and longer, they look at the ants in their food filled homes with envy and they ask the ones they once laughed at for favors. 

but the ants have worked for their spoils and they laugh now as they rebuff the pleas of the august bugs and laugh still as the august bugs perish in the winds only to repeat the same tragic cycle for eternity... for what does an august bug want but to sit in the perfumed breeze of a lovely, tall cicada tree?  

vacation

we are going on vacation. normally i would be ecstatic about the prospects of leaving the city for the aegean coast, but i am being distracted by my unending illness. it has been one week. i am never sick. i have come to the conclusion that i must be dying. so in direct juxtaposition to my present sentiments, i give you these beautiful photographs of my home.... how i wish to sit on the banks of these shady, dark waters with nothing but the breeze and a neti pot.  

velvet curtains

i have a sore throat. i hate being ill and, unfortunately, i make that perfectly clear so everyone else hates when i am ill as well.  i have my flaws; complaining is definitely one of them. probably should work on that....probably not today.

but i digress; my intention for this post is to tell of the strange occurrences manifesting themselves in the time of my discomfort.....

1. i used the electric teapot as a very effective humidifier for our room. i figured out (definitely not accidentally) that if i leave the top open to let out maximum steam, the kettle will never stop boiling;  a small work of genius, as the little kettle-that-could immediately transformed our sleeping space into a steamy sauna. i was very happy. ali was very unhappy (he is covered in a fine brown fur that keeps him well insulated on even the coldest of nights), but i didnt care...i am ill.

2. i dreamed of a lone toilet that stood nakedly in the middle of my home town. the solitary john was completely exposed to the elements and the watchful eyes of passersby.  as i walked along  the presently empty, moonlit street, the need came upon me, so i rested my pale fa-funs on its pearly edges.  my skin had but touched the cold contours when, to my immediate horror, i realized that a crowd of night runners was nearly upon my public place of constitution! i raced against them to simultaneously extricate myself from my blue, chiffon gown (chiffon?! how shameful. what torture is this?) and extricate said gown from the grips of the porcelain pooper. alas, humiliation seemed inevitable; i could now distinguish the first oncoming face (a mean-girl, what cruel fate!)....but as the realization dawned that i could not escape with the weight of a toilet-watered, frilled dress, i turned to face my former tormentors, and awoke (justice! i've paid loser dues) to the continued boil of my ancient, yet trusty teapot. 

moral: everyone has devils past, but i can proudly say, with near complete credence, that not one of those grade-school queens possesses the initiative to create a homemade humidifier from a soviet-era, electric kettle. what now.    

ramazan

today is the start of ramazan.  ramazan (turkish, or ramadan in english) is the ninth month of the islamic calendar, throughout which observers are expected to refrain from lustful acts, ingesting mind-altering substances, and various other heathenish behaviors. participants are also expected to fast during the daylight hours (even from water), making an already very animated peoples even more.....animated, is the word i am inclined to use again. 

this year, ramazan coincides with a period of oppressive heat in the city as well as roiling socio-political unrest; a storm is brewing and, like the most exciting summer thunder-storms, one cannot predict whether the winds will change, leaving only a sprinkle of rain chasing after a dark sky, or whether that sky will open and the forces will make what they want of this world.

so ali (my little turkish love) and i decided to escape. we drove up the bosporus to the black sea where the winds whip the water into a foamy, cold playground. we checked into a hotel room and shouted (spat)from our balcony. we ate pan-fried fish and drank cold beer and saw the sun set and waited for the night to bath our burnt skin in its cool, clean air.

it did, and we slept soundly in a way that is particular only to the comforts of a plush, white hotel bed you know you dont have to make in the morning.

and we didn't make it. we left it and walked amongst stone ruins and along grassy, green bluffs. we walked and whispered and watched the big boats push slowly on towards an elusive destination (perhaps russia or iran), an inconceivable reality, leaving only our wonder and envy in their wake.