breakup

there are periods in life, fleeting, torrid, when the world goes wild and your heart beats for everything you’ve lost and your breath in the air in front of you holds the weight of these losses.  there are times, the breaking of love, a space in your chest, when every action is acceptable, when the daylight comes too quickly and you keep your friends close in the opening atmosphere so you wont have to be alone. 

for three months i pushed and pushed and pretended and played and wondered at how my body worked as i took the bus to school in the morning.  for three months i decided not to deal, stolen moments, stolen time, with the reality of what had vanished, in minutes, from around me.   a life, the settling of feelings, a standard comfort, was erased with the closing of an apartment door; years gone, swallowed in accusatory silence, seconds passed in eternities, what i had grown to know was no longer.

not a single word - scents stir something in my stomach, sights bring a lingering sorrow, with his rash action (humiliation, shameful face) he took the happiness from our two years.  Thief of joy, time bandit, I need to learn not to regret my mistakes in life.  These are the real lessons, the notebooks piled on your desk, dusty, still relevant, that you open, repeatedly, persistent as the seasons, when you forget who you are.

layover

flying in i woke up because my head was chilled against the wall of the plane so i opened the window and looked onto an unrecognizable world bathed in diaphanous, dawn light.  seeing ukraine, you can know for a brief moment, the flat, cold places of this planet, where the land is long and white, the forests are black and the wild is right there in front of you. 

it was -10 degrees when i walked out and my throat ached and the breath of 100 people rose before me in the glittering, frozen air.  what can i say of this place? this place that the sun wont even touch when the winter winds its fingers around the trees, the darkness, so lonely, as though it is determined to stay that way. This place is strange to me, strange and long and cold.

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.