<< don't want nothin' from nobody: ain't nothin' to take >>

it is early morning in world house hostel and they have fired up the reggae here. breakfast shortly. outside the open patio doors is the bustle of istanbul, the irregular paving stones, the scraggly cats, the orange- and blood orange-juice stands in the middle of the streets, the bosphorus-bound ships leeching oil and filthy smoke. i am first up among my dorm mates. on my table is a pinkish bottle of water because the tap water has a strange taste here, pinkish from low grade instant pomegrante drink mix they say can be served cold. the cars in the streets are noisy, even this early, and inside here they turn up the music overtop.

our hostel is at one end of istiklal caddesi which is a long street with a tramcar running up and down with a bell that clangs to get the peasants out of its way. many of the people here wear green, bright green. you see green t-shirts, green skirts, green belts, green canvas shoes. at the one end of istiklal is taksim square bus station with too few ins and outs for all the transit that needs to flow through. you can follow the tram tracks all the way to the other end where the road forks, one direction leading down to our hostel, one direction leading down to attatuk bridge that leads across to old istanbul, to the spice bazaar and the aquaducts and cisterns of the old city.

astrid and i share a dorm room with two girls from italy who each uniformly wear black, with black sandals and black handbags and dark shaded glasses. one of them has cleopatra bangs and cleopatra wrists and a cobra earring twisted through one ear, and silver jewelry in her mouth, lip and at the outside points of her collarbones. her hair is black and shiny under the streetlights like the evil eye i found made of opaque black glass and ringed with silver.

our dorm window looks straight into the loudspeaker of the minaret from a mosque next door. last night the prayer call was particularly beautiful, echoing and it seemed to have a kind of sparkle or flange effect on the cry, although i know that was the mood and the wistfulness.

as the day creeps in the traffic picks up and it has now started raining here. i am not sure what today holds. i am not sure what this week holds. this is alright.

<< *doesn't need to be a weatherman >>

from U.S. teens earn a : ( in writing [iht.com] :

It is nothing to LOL about: Despite best efforts to keep school writing assignments formal, two-thirds of U.S. teens admit in a survey that emoticons and other informal styles have crept in.

[...]

Half of the teens surveyed say they sometimes fail to use proper capitalization and punctuation in assignments, while 38 percent have carried over the shortcuts typical in instant messaging or e-mail messages, like "LOL" for "laughing out loud." A quarter of teens have used :) and other emoticons.

Over all, 64 percent said they had used at least one of the informal elements in school.

[...]

Teens who consider electronic communications with friends as "writing" are more likely to carry the informal elements into school assignments than those who distinguish between the two.

The chairman of the [National Commission on Writing] advisory board, Richard Sterling, said the rules could possibly change completely within a generation or two: Perhaps the start of sentences would no longer need capitalization, the way the use of commas has decreased over the past few decades. "Language changes," Sterling said. [...]

*quotes jack kerouac :

<< remove literary grammatical syntactic inhibition >>

*also quotes bob dylan

<< come mothers and fathers throughout the land
don't criticize what you can't understand -- 
yr sons and yr daughters are beyond yr command
and yr old road is rapidly aging -- 
so get out of the new one if you can't lend a hand, 
for the times, they are a-changing. >>

*knows which way the wind blows

<< she once was a true love of mine >>

i hope you will come visit me this year at the north country fair.

the children in bare feet are what do it for me. and the afternoon workshops where the performers team up and fiddle around on stage together and one takes the mike and says, alright, this one's in B, and from there they just wing it. they say, when you get to the bridge, jump! and you can sure squeeze a lot of music out of three chords and twelve bars.

and sitting on the grass at dusk as the opening acts tune up. and how one year it rained the whole weekend and that made it even better, splashy and muddy and the performers in communal rubber boots and how caroline mark therefore sang these boots are made for walkin.

it is my favourite of the summer festivals by far. it takes place on the longest day of the year and it is so far north that the sun hardly sets.

and it will be my birthday.

i am a star child. and i hope you will come visit.

<< if you're travellin' in the north country fair
where the winds hit heavy on the borderline,
remember me to the one who lives there
she once was a true love of mine. >>

stay beautiful, you and me both : )

<< it doesn't haunt me like it did before >>

towards the end of act two, something happens to change the fortunes of the protagonist.

for me, if this has happened, it happened more quietly than i expected.

saying to me to sleep off the gin she touched my face, and then i said do you want to sleep in my bed with me, there being two of us in a room for five, and so she climbed into my gritty bed and we slept.

in the morning when she said, where did you come from, i said: some nowhere town.

in the evening she walked me to the goreme bus station.

as the bus pulled away under april rain, i wished i'd told the truth: i wished i'd said i'd fallen from heaven. i wished i'd said i was made of stardust. because i can speak so down about myself, little things that creep in and that i don't notice until it is too late, like that i am from some nowhere town. and i speak about my heart prosaically.

but my story is my own to tell, and i am what i make of me. and when i tell this story now, i say that i did not miss a beat to answer: where did i come from? i am just like that bird.

i feel lighter and more fearless.

act two, scene four: back in burhaniye. from here, downward motion til the start of act three. back home, my burning man ticket has arrived and i am making the plans i need to be able to ride my bike down to black rock city. i have found someone to transport my gear for me and all i had to do was ask. i am going to get there alone, under my own power, and what's more, strong and free. has omething in my fortune changed?

<< deafening noise; transient joys >>

i am in a _cute little hotel room in konya (more to follow) having an after-midnight dinner. the spicy red tomato spread i bought in ugrup is like the peppered walnut spread i tried at sundance, and after days and days of bread and tomatoes it is making my tongue positively sparkle. as well i have olives and green beans and fruit and even: chocolate covered apricots. i wish i had shared them in goreme. i do. all i can do now though is to enjoy them doubly.

today was my last day in cappadocia, which i have learned means land of the beautiful horses. i spent two weeks there. when i arrived it was still cold at nights -- we needed an infrared heater in the dorm -- and there was hardly anyone there. now it is hot and clear, days, and the tulips have bloomed. i was there for the very start of the summer tourist season. on my first night the town pub had neither gin nor tonic. when i went back on my last night they had gone to the city for both (oh dear).

i have learned much about backgammon, a few things about turkish too (like how to ask if a store sells cheese -- peynir varme?), and about exploring, and of course a few things about myself and my perhaps splendid silvery wings.

i am sad to go. today for my final day i went and visited with the artists at the ceramic workshop where they make beautiful things. when i arrived the owner of the shop was using a steel compass to scratch white circles into a painted blue plate. we drank tea. they fed me green bean soup. when it was time to go they gave me a tiny two handed wine jug to see me off.

from there back to the hostel to say goodbye to the people i met and to kate (who breathes more slowly than i do when she is sleeping and i am not, and who plays a mean game of backgammon, and who asked me "where did you come from?" and i said in earnest, "i am just like that bird") and also to jade, the burner who brought me here. from there to the bus station where i got the last seat on the bus, to leave under desert rain.

look what they made me at the ceramic workshop, black paint on a white clay tile. for no reason at all except that cappadocia is a magical part of the world. and the raisins and mulberries are excellent.

<< your eyes don't look into mine >>

yesterday i went on a rather rushed tour through and underground city at Selime, from there to the Ihlara valley which is left over from the eruption of mount Hasan, and back, on a hot hazy dusty afternoon. definitely rushed though and our guide, who had a little punk black leather and chrome studs thing goin on, did not give any information that i could not have figured out myself -- except that they call it the pigeon valley because the people who lived there would cut little bird houses into the clay for birds to use. then they would collect the droppings for use as fertilizer.

i figured it was useful to get me out of the hostel and also to introduce me to some new people. and they got us lunch, lentil soup in tin bowls and sizzling entrees cooked over coals in clay plates, and oranges for desert. we ate down by the windy river that runs through the ash brown soil and the volcanic rock, the tall narrow trees that are the ihlara valley.  

then from there a siesta for the hot hour-long drive back through little villages with mosques at either end, houses with garden walls piled out of loose stones, school children doing drills with umbrellas on the asphalt in front of their schools. sometimes only one house on each of the four horizons, the turned over soil rich and dry, and ashen plants, but also the impression of rust: rusting street signs, rusting gates, rusting farm equipment idle in the fields.

then when we arrived back at the hostel i was anxious to get off and out of the hot bus. i forgot to say goodbye to my passing acquaintances on the bus. so, not quite a social experience. not quite an anything.

gentle creature, be careful with your heart

<< i know where i can find you :
in someone else's room >>

today i am sad.

<< been thinkin 'bout alicia keys >>

strange, wonderful, magical things are happening to your protagonist.

i been thinkin 'bout alicia keys,
couldn't keep from cryin
but she was born in hell's kitchen,
i was livin down the line --
i'm wonderin where in the world alicia keys could be:
i been lookin for her right clear through tennessee.


recall that last year i went on a summertime adventure seeking -- well, call it seeking astrid kerr. today i slightly found her.

for a few reasons of neediness and love and desire, astrid and i did not so much talk leading up to my departure, making me think that i had perhaps seen the last of my torch-singer vegan friend. so off i went to wander and maybe find her again. i did not know exactly what i was looking for. seeking astrid kerr is just code, after all: i knew only that i had to let go of many things deeper than what went down between her and me, though i didn't know what -- neko case singing, if i knew then what's so obvious now, you'd still be here, baby.

when i got back i found astrid working at an organic cafe and she came with me to her first rave, where she was a star. she is coming to europe this summer and we are considering a train ride together.

and she is perhaps even coming to burning man, her first time. and she needs someone to help her with the basics, like, that rubbermaid bins work best for storing gear and that you want to take plenty of ziplocks. today we talked for hours. and one more grudge i hold against myself is slowly melting.

the universe is affording me chance after chance at redemption. late last night the unicorn girl, getting home from chef school in montreal (where she is studying), messaged me to say:

"you need to see how much of a trashy chef i look right now."

"tell me," i said.

but she didn't want to tell me, she wanted to show me. i swear every single word of this is true. sitting at her computer she turned on her little camera. she waved. she had a white chef's coat with pockets in the sleeves; in the pockets, a felt pen and a spoon; a black kerchief at her neck; a white apron over a skirt. her hair is as red as it is black, her eyes as grey as they are blue. her smile pushes up her cheekbones. she undid her kerchief. she loosened the top buttons of her jacket. then the jacket came off. she had a black t-shirt on underneath. she wore three black necklaces. she lit a cigarette.

then she undid the apron; a black skirt. then she slid out of the skirt and sat there in black boyshorts and black fishnet stockings. she stretched her legs long out to the camera.

"i quite like that contrast," she typed, "uniform and fishnets. very sneaky."

and then she climbed under her covers typing she was cold and then she typed 'sleep time' and kissed me with an x and that was it -- gone.

i ask you: what do i ever do to deserve anything.

today the world SPARKLED. i saw turtles. i saw frogs. i saw river pebbles. i saw dragonflies. i saw swarms of bees. i saw bright yellow birds. i saw bushes with razor sharp thorns. i touched the rocks and in the forest shade they were colder than my someday tomb. the trees burst with their flowers. the dark sea gleamed white under the sun. i saw a little boy chasing after a cat with a pine cone in his hands, for no reason at all, because everyone knows you don't catch cats with pine cones, you catch them with cheese -- his mother close behind. a man walked carrying two fishing rods and a wire basket.

i walked through the forest til i found the ruins of Phaselis. i came in overland, walked out through the town til i got to the little harbour, a small bay made with rolled-in stone pieces and rocks to isolate it from the bigger waves out on the sea. then i turned around to look back and the whole city leapt to life: you suddenly could see the oldtime people coming in by ship, not the way i came, but over the water, docking their boats and walking up the triplets of stone steps. you could see the city's logic, the movement of caravans down the main street, from the shore along the road that disappeared now into the forest. you could see the left turn up to the theatre, the baths on the right with the tile mosaic leading you in. you could see the baskets, the fish, the bread, the fronts of shops in the worn down stone walls. all this under the daytime moon.

walking back home along the beach, girls in the surf and for once it mattered not if they were wearing swimsuits or bikinis or even just suntan lotion --

and you see your girl's brown body dancing in the turquoise
and her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea --

it mattered _less. and feeling like for some things i am damn near forgiven, just like war is over (if you want it).

<< you know sometimes you lie >>

today i went walking down along the beach until a big rock outcropping blocked my way; then i climbed up and around and stood leaning on a tree watching tourists on the beach below on the other side.


you say you love me that you're
thinking of me but you
know you could be wrong


then i went down and sat on the beach in the sun and collected seashells. i was lying on my stomach in the sun and i saw this tiny little seashell the size of a grain of rice. and i picked it up and rolled it in my palm. my sacred geometry book informs me that seashells are a form of logarithmic spiral, and that the universe is a machine, like one of those water-powered calculators. this little shell was perfect, and so tiny. goodbye, little shell, i said, i am going to send you back to the randomness from whence you came. for you have your place in things and i have mine. and i made to crush it between my strong index finger and thumb. but of course i could not crush it. the math behind those spirals makes them very strong.

so i spent the rest of the afternoon collecting the tiniest seashells i could find. cat tracks, all four paws on one line, in the wet sand along the water's edge. walking back past a creek i saw these turtles warming themselves on rocks and when i got too close they all jumped into the water and were gone.

back at camp, some cheese and a nap, for nothing says cheese like a nap, and nothing says a nap like cheese.

and that has been my day.

<< sky full of fire / rain fallin down >>

cold abruptly and there is a thunderstorm moved in overhead. i am sitting inside the main building here. water drips through the ceiling where there has been a hole cut, and fitted, to allow a tree up and through from where it is growing in the centre of the dining area. spider plans in pots hang from its branches, and hula hoops that await the arrival of summer hippies. on the gravel beneath there is a basket for garbage and one for used batteries. a scraggly cactus stretches up almost to the ceiling, and in a grey ceramic pot there is an elephant plant with new leaves still folded and redrubberywrapped, soon to unfurl. in the windows hang long strings with pinecones and feathers tied one after the other. the big wooden doors leading to the kitchen have reliefs carved into them, men with curls plyaing lutes, tambourines, with ornate belts and wrapped skirts. this white tablecloth has blue eye beads woven in. the chairs are uniform wood chairs but each one has been painted a different colour with those elementary school paints that come in pucks. i have a steaming cup of tea. they are lighting the stove. from where i sit i can see the choppy sea. outside some visitors stroll wearing borrowed orange rain ponchos. the ducks are right at home in the puddles. two chickens hide under a picnic table.

my chocolate supplies are finite out here but today is the day to have a piece. know that everything challenging that i thought i could leave behind by merely coming to turkey, every single thing that needs to change in me has come right along with me, even right along to sundance where the *sun *itself *dances (although not today). it's like that saying, the only zen you find at the top of a mountain is the zen you take up there. anyways you make me smile. stay beautiful and _take _no _prisoners : )

<< timber two foot six across / burns with the bark still on >>

ok, we, um, need a new regime over here.

no more full fat cream. only on special occasions (breakfast).

no more late-night snacks of honey.

no more mid afternoon cookies. there are lots of vegetables here and they are plenty tasty.

today i may go to bergama, which is an ancient city with a huge crumbling aquaduct. it is a day trip from burhaniye.

the smell of smoke is gone from the air now. in the front yard across the way the tangerines are long gone.

<< who among them do you think would impress you? >>

the wooden crates delivered last week contained a collection of artifacts to be used to decorate mo's restaurant. there were vases, water jugs, sculptures, paintings, and serving plates such as this one.

this is the star pattern i have seen all over turkey. you can see it carved into wood doors, painted on the ceilings of mosques, or in tile patterns in the sidewalks.

i spent yesterday and today looking at a book called Sacred Geometry and playing with a straightedge and compass, trying to figure this pattern out and also thinking about bigger patterns in life, and the true deal with airline peanuts.

with your mercury mouth in the missionary times
and your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
with your silver cross and your voice like the chimes,
who did you think would bury you?

it is simple, really. you start with six circles around one and from there you build a dodecahedron. then once you see the underlying structure you just start connecting the dots and you can tease the stars out easily.

something i remember from this summer that has stayed with me: the words, graffiti to a lost love but i suppose also a prayer -- i release you from the karmic patterns that exist between us. as in, you enabled my bad habits, i enabled yours, but what is done is done.

it is funny how there are patterns that go one way and patterns that go another. patterns in geometry, math, music, rhyme, these are all one kind of pattern, the magnificent cosmos. patterns of behaviour, tension patterns in the body, learned helplessness, these are another.

today was a beautiful day in burhaniye. the sun the warm and there was no wind. the air was still but clear. the sea was blue like potter's glaze. i heard children playing on the squeaky swings. i heard birds. i was visited by a bee. there was sunshine on my back and on the yellow shrubs in the front yard.

i sat on the porch tracing lines and circles going round and round, and there is a song called Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, a song which seems to me to be about the meaning of life, the boundless sorrow of living out of fear instead of seeing the universe everfreshly -- the sad-eyed prophets say no man's gonna come.

the day dripped slow like honey. i heard the children coming home from the playground, counting as they walked -- bir, iki, uch, dürt, bes, alti. maybe they were counting hopscotch steps, maybe marbles, maybe coins, i do not know. i stayed out on the balcony til it got shivercold, which is does on the waterfront before the sun even sets.

the shakedown

in turkish he asked me for the time. when i showed him my watch (for not speaking turkish) he said, "english?" and so we got to talking, although, seriously, like, i do not need more clutter in my life, but whatever.

he told me i look turkish and he thought i was turkish. he had an umbrella and he held it over me as well as himself.

he told me one day he wants to come to canada. he would walk with me up the street. told me his name was kennel.

and did i want to get a drink, his treat. "you ever try turkish beer? efes?"

i had not. i didn't really want one. i was cold from the rain and wet. but he said, it will be quick, and his treat, for he was going to see a soccer game. did i know such and such a player. i did not. in canada it's all hockey. whatever. not that i even like hockey although i said i don't mind it. he had ugly teeth, that is what i noticed about him, and he spoke english poorly.

"will you show me where to get some yoghourt?" i said.

"sank-you," he answered.

i could have corrected him politely but i did not. he kept saying sank-you to everything. LEARN TO SPEAK THE LANGUAGE OF THE CONQUERING TRIBE, WHELP. off we went.

yoghourt was a dollar and some, from an honest-feeling little shop that also sold cheese, fruit, nuts, milk, and so on. i planned to come back because you can do a lot of inexpensive eating with yoghourt when you are in a hostel, and it was close to where i was staying.

he insisted that i come for a drink with him.

so there is this little voice in my head that i am trying to learn to listen to. my brother also had told me about a standard scam in istanbul, and my travel guide warned about it too. it starts with someone inviting you for a drink with them. i knew this. off we went.

in the bar, techno, and there was a picture of the new york skyline including the twin towers. we sat in a booth with a little dish of peanuts. there were two bored-looking girls standing on the dancefloor dancing badly. seriously badly. the guy started smoking. he ordered two beers for us.

"it's nice place, yes?"

"not bad." it sucked.

they brought our drinks.

the girls came over and sat down.

"can we sit here?"

the waiter brought their drinks, glass bottles with gold foil wrap in a bucket under the table. the little voice.

if these girls were prostitutes, i would have paid, perhaps fifty cents for the services that followed. where am i from. what do you do there. is it cold where you come from. how long is the flight. the titillation.

one was named layla. i told her there was a song about a layla. at least i did not start singing it.

they finished their drinks. layla said, "can i have another." kennel said yes. the one next to me asked if she could too. kennel said he was paying. the little voice again, intuition. but what did i care if he was paying?

a big man in a black suit brought a menu and said, "because it may be too expensive for you." kennel looked at it, pushed it my way, i did not know what i was looking at really, he took it and handed it back to our acne'd waiter who was also quick to light kennel's cigarette.

the waiter brought two more bottles and fired the corks into the corner: champagne. unease.

kennel put on his coat. layla: "you are not leaving?"

"no, i am just cold."

i suppose that was the signal for the waiter to bring the bill. kennel looked at it. he put it on the table where i looked at it, twelve hundred dollars.

so this is the scam and i fell for it. this is what intuition sounds like when it says danger. i have learned to listen to intuition in some parts of life but i did not know so much what it sounds like when it says danger. i have never really been in danger before.

"my friend," said kennel, "i do not have this kind of money and my credit card has a limit of six hundred, so we are going to have to share this."

i told him i was not paying. i knew the scam. i knew i was being scammed, now. i did not connect then that he would have beeen working for them too. but either way he could deal with it, i was leaving.

the waiter told me no, i was not.

kennel was my friend, of course. "please, my brother, we go talk to the manager." so we went in to speak to the manager in the little room, the one who'd brought the menu, a guy twice my size in a black suit and black shirt and black tie, a little room done up in red. the waiter came too and closed the door. (don't go into the little room.)

"what seems to be the problem?" said the 'manager' as if he didn't know.

stress hormones keep me from remembering the exact dialogue but the way the scam goes is that in the end you either pay the bill cash, or credit card, or they persuade you to let them take you to and from a bank machine. the waiter stood scrunched-up looking between me and the door. he looked down. he looked like the dog that would lose in a fight and knew he would lose if he had to fight.

so what do you do. they wanted money from me. i told him to talk to the girls (they were still outside in their own booth). the manager said those girls worked for him and it was their job to sit with customers and drink. and he had even brought us the menu. i told him kennel said he was paying, he should talk to kennel. the manager said i was paying. i said i had one drink, all i would pay for was one drink. he said his line, i said mine until finally he shouted "FUCK the one drink."

i told them i was not paying. i was scared but not too scared. i knew that if i showed i was scared i would be done for. i told them i was leaving. i got up to go.

the waiter, looking up, pushed me back down.

the manager started using words like "or i'm gonna take it by force." up to what point do you bluff? kennel said, "no, no, please, we" -- we -- "don't want any trouble." i told kennel i was not paying. "no," he said, "you are not paying, we are paying, my credit card limit is seven hundred" -- before it was six hundred -- "we will share it." later his limit would be eight hundred. i was not paying.

the big guy came out from behind his desk, pulled my up by my coat. he was twice my size. i don't think he would have hit me. he told me to take out my wallet. i took out my wallet.

he said, "you have a credit card." i said i was not paying.

he took my fifty dollars and told me i could go. i left fast thinking i was abandoning kennel but later i figured out he was working for them too. the girls were in a booth of their own. i thought about teaching them a new word or two but figured best to leave before someone changed their mind about letting me go. so i left.

angry. it has been a long time since i have been genuinely angry. also angry at myself.

i understand how people get scammed and no one ever hears about it, because i felt ashamed that i'd been played and what's more that i walked right into it. back at the hostel i sat alone. i wrote a postcard to a friend who has picked me up before when i have been down, haven't addressed it though. i thought about why things happen and why this happened to me and why much worse things happen to people. and why worse things happened to a beautiful friend back home.

it could have been much worse. i am ok, fully completely ok.

i called mo and told him what happened. he came to pick me up. he felt bad too. i am going to stay with him at his hotel tonight. he may take me with him where he is going tomorrow which is a tourism trade show.

this was the song in my head after i steadied myself -- the lonesome death of Hattie Caroll:

Hattie Caroll was a maid in the kitchen:
fifty-one years, she gave birth to ten children
who carried the dishes, and took out the garbage
and never once sat at the head of the table
and who just cleared off all of the food from the table
and who didn't much talk to the people at the table
and who emptied the ashtrays on a whole other level --

but you who philosophize disgrace
and criticize all fears
take the rag away from your face
now ain't the time for your tears.

in the world there is such misery and i don't know the half of it. i wonder what they thought after i left. high fives? probably not. probably the guy in the black suit was angry.

just today i was thinking how istanbul is not at all scary and what is there left in the world that can surprise me.

i keep playing this over in my head. i know what i should have done differently. part of me thinks it is my fault. part of me knows that fundamentally it is not. i am trying not to philosophize disgrace.

three other fun things about my trip to çanakkale

this was çanakkale the morning i left for troy -- foggy as ever.



Three Fun Things.

1. saw dolphins swimming in the dardanelles. twelve fins in two groups. tourists took pictures with their cell phone cameras as townspeople fished from the boulevard. a tourbus arrived and everyone got out to come see. a cat decided to come check it out too, pawed its way through the maze of legs, down to a rock where it sat looking out, visions of tuna fish going through its little mind.

2. made a friend at the info booth at troy.



this little guy had the same idea as me, warming up in Excavation House. when i went in he was sitting on one of the chairs sleeping. i sat down to check my guidebook and he meowed, looked at me and climbed onto my lap. then climbed up on my shoulder while i read the informational displays on the walls. thin like a rat.

3. heard some bob dylan on the radio. most of the stations here play turkish music, unlike the imported tv channels. but coming through the mountain pass before assos i switched onto a channel where a voice on the feminine side of androgynous was singing a bouncey cover of Fourth Time Around:

it was then that i got up to leave, and she said, don't forget :
everybody must give something back for something they get

i came late home to a quiet house. mo had been busy, installed a fireplace in the bedroom upstairs and an infrared heater in the bathroom -- like a toaster, only for humans. good to be back. learned a few things. more to follow.

<< i know where i can find you >>

mehmet has business in istanbul. uğur is going with him. ruçhan has left to go back home. i am staying behind to look after the dog and the cat. i will go to istanbul in a week. while mo is gone i am going to book a hostel room and find a cheap bus ticket.

i am at the house, alone with my thoughts for the first time in a long time.

it is quiet in this house. i hear air moving through the stove, but beyond that there is no noise -- no furnace, no water heaters, no electrical buzz to speak of.

i have put on music. i notice when it gets too quiet.

burning man tickets are on sale. it is already february, august plus six months. the year has started to move out. in istanbul i will find costumes and finery for the desert, blue and copper and gold. and i will burn so bright.

i miss you.

<< you'll never know the _hurt i suffered, nor the _pain i rise above >>

IN WHICH your correspondent witnesses the fourth annual Burhaniye Festival of Olives and Olive Oil, and lives to tell the tale.


we had not a moment's rest after the tour bus drove off down the highway.

"alright," said mehmet and clapped his hands. "let's reassemble."

no sooner had we gotten things back in order did people start arriving for the day's main event: local and national cooks preparing traditional turkish recipes, twenty-five contestents, three to be selected as winners -- a hard battle.

mehmet and i spent yesterday preparing. we figured sixty to seventy-five spectators. but in the end nearly double that number arrived and we ended up having to move tables out and more chairs in, first wooden ones, then folding metal ones, then plastic deck chairs still dusty from storage. even then people stood at the back of the room and around the sides, and milled outside, cigarette smoke coming through the doors as people came in and out.

at the front, the from-before horseshoe arrangement of tables had been draped with white linen and decorated with gerberas; plastic placards with the names of each judge in block blue lettering, european style, last name in capital letters.



the competition was to start at 1:00 but people started arriving before noon. a group of women arrived first, in long plain coats and scarves around their heads. a man arrived next and brought the first dish for entry, three whole preserved fish each cut into thirds. he showed us: he had decorated his platters with a parsley coral reef and carrots carved into goldfish. people moved in tight groups through the space. lots of woolen pants on the women, short to show leather boots. earrings on one out of every two. four pairs of jeans in total. one woman in a drab pullover with a drab wool neck, with "US Army" on the left sleeve, and wool cuffs. suits on the men, often with sweaters beneath, and woolen hats. more and more dishes arrived, each one covered in tin foil. mehmet carried a clipboard, recording each entry and numbering it. people sat and drank tea. cell phones rang. soon the whole restaurant filled up. i sat at the back, watching and taking notes (since i could not really talk to the locals). two women came and sat at my table when there were no other seats. one of them pointed to my handwriting. "Inglishe?" she asked. "Or Arabique?"



meanwhile ruçhan photographed each dish as it arrived, ferrying each one, a napkin under his fingers, from the table where the competitors put each dish as they came in, to the photography table that he'd spent the morning setting up and lighting. from there an attendent took it up to the judging table. i smelled baklava.



the judges arrived, eight of them, and mehmet ushered them in through glass doors at the front of the room. the mayor, too, entered by the front, sat in a space saved for him in the front row. a camera crew, four men carrying backs of gear, pushed in from the back. the judges sat in their given places, the dishes numbered and laid out in front, and the contest began.



the MC wore a suit and boomed into the microphone. the judges sat still as they were being introduced. the contestants presented their dishes to the judges, some politely, some congenially, some seriously. silverware clinked from the kitchen: between each dish servers brought fresh knives and forks and refilled water glasses.

staff served lunch on styrofoam plates to the overflowing crowd: chickpeas made in a huge pot, bread, yoghourt drinks. the power went out, then came back, then went out again. mehmet jumped the first time to fix it; the second time he kept eating. i learned later it was a brownout. the power stayed down for most of the day. we ran off the farm's diesel generator.

i struggled with the truth of the scene before me. mehmet's uncle told me, c'est une journée, une chance à manger quelquechose. it's a day out, a chance to go out for a meal. mehmet worked at his speech.

the panel of judges retired upstairs to deliberate. men stepped outside to smoke. women sat in circles and talked, their children hovering. people spoke, listened, sought acceptance. people observed norms, pushed at them. people did what they could to differentiate this day from the last, drank the tea that was brought to them in little glass cups. a man played music over the PA -- again the sound of the flatted seventh. but then that song ended and the man changed the disc and put techno on, too loud. techno used to seem pan-national, devoid of dogma. this stuff had eastern sounding synths in it but mostly it was bland, standard stuff with standard EQ effects sweeping up and down, and a standard structure.

it was a goodhearted event.

the judges returned. people came back in. the man faded the music out. the MC took the mic. i heard mehmet's name. he spoke for a minute. the mayor's name, he spoke too, all smiles, and bowed his head. each contestent got a carnation and a certificate. the winners got gold pins.



the judges left, headed upstairs for the Q&A panel, and people pressed forward to sample what was left of the dishes. i looked for the baklava. gone! but i learned mehmet had put it off to the side, safe. the dish i liked was made with a textured noodle in a light red sauce, peppered meat, and a cream sauce overtop with paprika. c'est celui-ci que j'aurais choisis, i said to mehmet's uncle, this is the one i'd have chosen. j'ai vu, he said, i saw -- i'd gone back for more.

de quoi est-ce qu'on parle en haut? i asked him, what are they talking about upstairs?

de l'huile d'olive, he said, olive oil, on en parle toujours. always.

Lilly called another bet

so it turns out i am better than i thought at poker.

the girl who stole girls from boys in my one-time scene: she played poker. she played poker with many boys i knew. she made sure all of them wanted her. i kept clear. how do you win at a game like that? something about self-confidence, and that _i wanted that girl, myself. the guy who kept her for a while made certain we knew she was not his only girlfriend. How Do You Win At A Game Like That. his avatar has since been the jack of hearts.

rainey wet evening. i was upstairs. the TV was on downstairs where the other four were. i have moved an oil lamp into my room to give softer light than the fluorescent. i was reading. uğur came up and asked me if I knew how to play texas hold 'em. i said kinda.

pistachio shells and backgammon pieces for currency. icecream and walnuts for desert partway through -- vanilla icecream but it had a licorice flavour.

i did not lose. i won an early hand. i folded when appropriate. we stopped when uğur ran out of shells. ruçhan won comfortably. arif was nearly out then. mehmet and i were close.

the house is quiet now. i hear the noise of the wind and rain. the oil lamp burns low.

i did not have to bluff in turkish. that mighta made it easier, i don't know. i bluff pretty well when i think about it.

Türkce dili

today again at the factory.

awoke to find two more people have joined us at mehmet's. one speaks some english, one does not. from downstairs now i hear Turkish and a boiling kettle and i smell dumplings.

i do not have a problem communicating with the puppy, who has enormous paws, nor with the cat. but otherwise i have trying to convey, mostly, please and thank-you.

it helps that turkish uses the alphabet i know, though the letter sounds are all different here, a different timbre of sound. vowels are cleaner than they are in north american english. down with dipthongs! every vowel makes exactly one sound. U seems to be a french-sounding U. A is always a short A. E is a long A. I is long. meanwhile consonants are more clipped. T is always T, never D; F never slips to V. C makes Tse. an accent over an S or a C works like an H -- from S to Sh, from C to Ch. an accent over a G sound drops it in the mouth til it no longer is recognizably a G. so, mehmet's girlfriend's name, phonetically oor, is in fact spelled uğur -- that is, 'uyur,' but reduce the Y sound until it is nearly gone. H's have a little bit of breathiness in them but hardly any. the R sound is not like an english R, not like a french R, nor is it a rolled R. more like an R crossed with an H, just a touch of haspiration.

vowels can have umlauts over them -- not sure how they work yet. some consonants also can have little tails, works like an H -- from S to Sh and C to Ch.

grammar-wise, turkish has a structure like apostrophe-S in english (the genitive case -- gets me hot baby to hear you say those words again after all this time). but this is not just to indicate possession. so, when pointing to canada on a map you'd say "kanada", but to say "i am of canada", you would have to change it from "kanada" to "kanadadan." you'd say, kanadadan geliyorum.

to say hello to someone is Selamin Aleyküm, and when someone says that to you, you say back Aleyküm Selamin, same thing only backwards.

i spent part of today talking with mehmet's uncle, over coffee (kava) and lunch (öğle yemegi), as mehmet saw to business. the uncle speaks french -- so today i spoke almost as much french as english, and, amazingly, my list of turkish words to learn is not an english-turkish list but a french-turkish list. today's words are:

- good morning : günaydin
- good day : iyi günler
- good evening : iyi akşamlar
- good night : iyi geceler
- yes, no, maybe : evet, hayir, belki
- where, when : nerete, nezaman
- my name is : ismim NOTE now i can say a rough approximation of "call me ishmael," it'd be "ismim ishmael"
- me, you, he/she : ben, sen, o. plurals biz, siz, onlar
- please, thank-you : lütfen, mersi (same as french)
- to right, to left : sağ, sol
- hot, cold, neutral : sicak, soğuk, ilik

coffee is kava. tea is čay (think "chai") -- those two are easy. sugar is šigir -- that one's easy too -- cream is krema. and to count to ten from zero is : sifir, bir, iki, üč, dört, bez, alti, yedi, sekiz, dokuz, on.

mehmet tells me i need to work on my vowel sounds -- though, frankly, he says it "wowel."

interesting to be so much out of my element. english is so damn easy and furthermore there is always something to say -- at this very moment outside my room they are doing something with the plumbing, hammering into the concrete, i merely quote bob dylan -- last night across the alley there was a poundin' on the wall: musta been your don pasquale makin' a 2:00 A.M booty call. dig? i have talked in the past about clear and honest communication. it is different here, kinda. what if mehmet and his uncle were gone and no one spoke my language? things would matter more then.

today's pictures are of the classroom above the Laleli store. note how the chairs are all arranged in perfect rows and columns even when the room is empty. at the back, under the windows, are greyblue pots of herbs.



back at mo's house we have taken the chimney apart and are installing a heat exchanger, to squeeze the last drips of juice out of the stove. night before last it was so hot it was making me dizzy and mo was sweating in just an undershirt. we have been experimenting trying to find a way to use processed olive pits for fuel. we burned through a whole box of them. the stove got so hot so fast it started to shudder. the cat fled. it was great.

singing just for you

<< bird on the horizon,
sittin' on a fence,

singin' a song for me
at his own expense --

i am _just _like _that _bird >>