<< 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.

craft in goreme

pictures from a morning walk:

how was it for you? (2)

in an effort to put my finger on whatever nutrients i am missing, whatever it is that is making me so endlessly peckish, today in Urgup i picked up a big tub of yoghurt, for calcium, and spicy tomato spread to have on bread, in case it is complex flavours that i am missing. i will have it tomorrow on a crusty loaf with soft cheese from the market, the kind with the imprint of a screen on one side, where it's been pressed and drained in a sieve.

on the way back, ali, restauranteur who speaks french and wants to give his restaurant a french name, served me tea and kemalpasa sweets to thank me for my suggestion of Notre Dame de Cappadoce.

tonight i am being given a proper hot supper since it is my last night here: potatos, rice, soup, salad. i have found chocolate covered dried apricots.

mustafapasa for two

today an easy day trip with kate, my backgammon partner roommate, to a little town called mustafapasa. the garbage trucks were coming through on the wide brick streets and announced their presence with a loudspeaker on the truck.

there are three churches to see outside mustafapasa and we managed to find two. then we wandered the town looking at the houses with courtyards behind high stone walls, and under arches wood doors with iron fasteners to pull together and lock, and loose piles of thorny firewood.

twice hearing I Just Called To Say I Love You, once from a radio playing in a restaurant, once from a radio playing in a car.

it was fun to have someone to explore with for a change and it definitely took a load off because the truth of each scene didn't escape me, it was just kind of there in the words between us, in a way that i haven't known in a long time, travelling alone.

near the bus stop is a mosque with a gazebo outside with faucets and marble benches and shower slippers, and in the garden nearby a few hyacinths and a handful of dandelions. a restaurant with salt and pepper shakers done up to be tomatoes, and a cup of tea that our waiter insisted we have for free.

then from mustafapasa to urgup which is a city like goreme but bigger, with fancier hedges lining the sidewalks and a bronze statue of a man and a woman holding out grapes from a basket. the men in the tourism office wear suits. there is a levi's store but there is a little antique copper jewelry store playing opera from a reel-to-reel. in the copper shop, each ornate necklace and bracelet jingles when you touch.

today and tomorrow

today in goreme the sky is so blue the green leaves of the budding trees seem translucent against it, and sheets and pillowcases gleam white on the line between the two biggest trees in the hostel garden.

there is a breeze.

this will be my last full day in goreme. next to istanbul to meet up again with mo, then from there back to burhaniye. that will be just about my last stint in turkey. from there into the unknown.

herded through the underground city

it was burning hot by the time we stopped in a little town called Derinkuyu to visit the underground city there, but as as soon as we got underground i wished i'd brought another layer. the rock was hard and cold to touch, the air cool and damp. there were evenly spaced electric lights with signs warning not to touch the wiring.

again, fast. this was a thousand year old sanctuary cut two hundred feet down into the rock and we spent perhaps twenty minutes moving through it. the passageways were tiny and close. you had to hunch and when you did your back would scrape the roof if you were not careful. sometimes the stairways were so narrow you could not turn around. there was a kitchen with an oven cut into the ground and a chimney about, storerooms with stone troughs, a winery with stone trays with drains to use for crushing grapes.

at the very bottom was the church, with a pitch dark passageway that led out into the stone and doubled back: the confessional, the voice in the dark.

the air had a smell i couldn't put my finger on. damp. near the ventilation shafts warm dry air spilled in and moved the dust on the ground.

i wish i'd had more time to sit and picture what life would have been like there. the city was a sanctuary for early christians to use to hide from roman persecutors. you could see the alcoves cut in for lanterns; you could see the rough crosses scratched in the walls. the city could accomodate thousands of people; it had its own wells, covered now with iron grates. persecutors would poison these wells to drive out those in hiding.



the truth of this scene: trust thyself. the tour just just barely worth it, but it was definitely not my style. i could have gotten myself to this cave city on my own and spent as much time as i liked here: it was the most interesting part of the tour and it was over altogether too soon. before any time at all we were herded back up to the third level past the school, past the stables nearest the entrance, and from there back up above ground where the light was blisteringly bright and the sun was hot.

how was it for you?

today i could feel i needed some green vegetables, not just bread and tomatoes and cheese. there was a little farmer's market in town, so, green beans.

the little green things in the picture that look like grapes are called chala. they are a relative of the peach. they are hard and sour.

everything shown for four lira (about three dollars) and half of that was for the apricots.

also, _it happened. about once a year i get a _craving for a banana. yesterday it happened. i do not normally like bananas but these cravings overpower me. one banana. it did not live long enough to make it into this picture. it was chock full of potassium. it was just right. the earth moved.

artzy shotz

this is one of the churches they took us to on the whirlwind tour. nice, and shady inside, but the waterbottles and the vandalism really do detract. also, being led around on a tour takes away most of the potential to poke your head into unexpected places and say wow.

places such as these:



an oil press and a dusty millstone with cracked grains on the ground beneath. how cool is that? but we just sort of went in and moved on. everyone took a picture. notice that mine are arty.

<< 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.

twelve : in the Tokali church

right outside goreme there is a spectacular church cut into a rock. this is like nothing i've ever seen before. the blue and the orange. the cavernousness. the echo of footsteps on the wooden walkways and of cameras beeping into autofocus.

the legend explaining the frescos is in the entrance to the church. forty-seven scenes are listed, numbered and mapped onto a pictoral representation of the church's interior. you have to mentally flip and project the number scheme to connect it to the pictures on the underside of the domed roof. it took me a few tries to find the picture representing the temptation of christ, which is a story that i want to learn more about. it happened in the desert, after all. it is third in, on the bottom row on the left.

all the holy figures have halos, radiant light. only christ has a halo with a cross. count the crossed halos, in from the left, one, two, three, and that is the scene.

on the left there is a short greeney black figure. on the right is the tall halo'd figure. he looks over his shoulder, back at his tempter. his body faces right. you can tell by his feet that he is turning: one foot faces out, half turned. his other foot is turned right as if to lead the step away. christ has his finger raised in scorn. his other hand holds a scroll. he wears a blue tunic and sandals. nearby are what look like loaves of bread, and two-handed vases.

he is turning, not turned.

but the scene that moved me unexpectedly: when i turned to leave, over the vaulted passageway behind me: a picture of the risen christ, arms outstretched, angels above, his twelve disciples folded before him, on the night when he appeared to them and took his seat among them saying, peace be with you.

i am pretty sure jesus, whoever he was, did not rise from the dead. like, come on. but these men felt something. they must have.

it would have come to them like this: twelve of them around a table for thirteen. in their minds the picture of their friend nailed to a cross, set against the burning sunset atop a hill outside the city. that much probably did happen: the pointing fingers and the jeering crowd. and now, twelve around a table for thirteen, sitting hands folded hearts heavy and wondering who will be the first to speak. and after all what do you say? then out of the heavy quiet, out of the uncertainty comes a feeling, not even a voice: peace be with you, and the quiet carries on, but different.

that feeling. it came to them then. it can come again. nothing in my belief system makes me think there can be no such feeling.

Uchisar : on top of cappadocia (and from there under the ground)

in cappadocia there are the valleys, the flats above, and there is Uchisar.

uchisar rises up over the flat lands and was once a defensive fortification. you can see it from everywhere in cappadocia except the deepest valleys. the wordless rain and wind have ground this fortress down until it had to be abandoned. the streets of the town stretch out below, up to the bottom of the rock castle. you can climb up through the inside of the castle, looking over the city: and on the top of cappadocia there are graves.

all of the cave churches you go to here have graves in the entrance, and there are always big graves and small graves, their coffin shape made imprecise from erosion, and often pistachio shells in them now.

from on top of cappadocia you can see the surrounding farmland divided into plots, with rows and rows of trees and low dark plants and ashbrown soil. you can see all the drip-shaped valleys, and one deep one cut with layers and layers of sediment. that is the pigeon valley where birds fly in formation. in the vista there is not a lot of green: there is some, but mostly it is the uniform low brownscraggle left after the goats move through. in one part the soil is yellower; elsewhere whiter. behind, the red tile rooftops of uchisar and a man chips at a stone block to make it fit in a wall he is working to repair. on the land you can see the shadows of the moving clouds, and the patterns of weather that the birds float on. people live under precariously balanced rocks as i play forward the rest of my time here.

<< in praise of Character in bleak inhuman loneliness >>

<< i loved you for your body >>

i have seized control of the hostel sound system and we are listening to leonard cohen with a vengeance.



this feeling, it hides in the dusty rafters.

today to help defray some of the cost of my extended stay in goreme i helped the hostel owner put insulation up on the inside of hostel roof. pink styrofoam insulation now covers the inside of the dining area. the TV was on while we worked, turkish MTV : video after video of kids dancing in clubs and spinning and singing -- it's all dance music nowadays and sped up vocals, quick -- and often it was a disco floor that they were dancing on, blinking squares; and silver lights and booty shorts and spikey hair and big black eyes -- and what i loved in my old life / i have not forgotten.

sweet smokey nostalgia. but i have started to connect: that nothing to hide from, maybe that means nothing to run from. and now someone has put on All you need is love. this is exactly how it happened.

forward motion

three things.

one. submitted the final homework assignment for the class i am taking online while on the road. not only is this the final requirement for this class, this class is the final requirement for my degree with the exception of my thesis (see picture of albatross, right).

two. decided on a return date.

three. cleaned up at backgammon this morning.

<< i thought i saw an eagle / but it might have been a vulture >>

skull bleached in the sun, jaws nearby, spine bones scattered, ribs and limbs nowhere to be seen.

<< be in love with yr life >> -- i insist

she was a girl of about seven in black leather sandals that wrapped around the ankles.

"'ello," she said -- british accent. she was standing on the step in front of a little hostel, eating from a package of chocolate raisins. i was coming back with muddy shoes from a day of walking in the valleys around goreme.

"do you want some candies?"

i took a step towards her. she was higher up than me, on the steps.

"you can play if you have some candies."

so i had some candies. "what are we going to play?" i asked.

"football."

she gave me one raisin. then she gave me two, then a handful.

"wait," she said. then she went and got a red plasticky ball.

"what's your name?" i said.

"elif."

"skylarl. say it again?"

"elif." she pointed to the sign in front of the hostel. she pointed to a sign on the hostel's wall that said: Elif Star Caves. "see that sign? that means my name."

which was very sweet.

so we started playing soccer on the brick street where horses went (you could tell by the, um, ...).

shortly she went to get sturdier shoes, then she came back. she wore white tights and a pink dress and had her black hair in a long braid. and now she had pink shoes as well. her father, who called her eli, came to play with us.

i feel strange even writing that verb.

but play we did: and when a car full of people staying at the hostel next door arrived, she chased after them and drew them one by one by the hand til there were seven of us playing. and she ordered us around. you stand there! now pass the ball to me! no, my turn! and when the ball got stuck under her dad's car she grabbed a big stick and whacked it (and some of the undercarriage) free.

she definitely liked the attention, like she was used to having hostels named after her. sometimes she would punt the ball and make her father run for it.

when two backpacker girls appeared on the scene walking down the other side of the waterway, she jumped on her bike and headed off to get them to come play too, leaving her father, me, and five american tourists tending the red plastic ball. but it was getting dark then and her dad said it was dinner time and it was time for the others to go too, and time for me to go. it was getting cold. i picked up my backpack and headed home walking down the road where she was riding back.

"i have something for you," i told her, and she stopped and put her feet down.

since burning man last year i have carried with me a little plastic case of business cards, those perforated cards that you can get and run through your laser printer, then tear out to make into individual cards, ten to a sheet. only i used them in my typewriter and wrote out fortunes and used them to tip at playa bars and to give to interesting people i met, such as the girl in the temple who was crying and who caught my eye for reasons that i wish i could go back and change. but anyways i have a few handfuls of these cards left for people here and i figured i would give one to elif, who would keep it forever. right? because i am so sweet and smart and sensitive.

"do you know what this says?" i said. "it says, be in love with yr life. you know what be in love means, right?"

she held the card in her hands and stood straddling her bike. then she held the little typewritten card out and tore it in half, then in half again, and again. then she dumped her bike down and ran over to the waterway and threw the fluttering pieces in.

"you shouldn't litter," i told her.

then she picked her bike back up and pedaled off. "come back tomorrow," she called back to me -- british accent.

hello from goreme

in the ceramic workshop

the owner of Göreme Seramik doodles on the faded vinyl tablecloth as we chat. he draws a careful circle as he tells me about the craft of ceramic painting in cappadocia. he fills the circle with six quick arcs as he tells me how his father was a painter, and his brothers. he ornaments the arcs with evenly-spaced dots as he tells me there are fewer and fewer people to carry on the tradition. he draws a carnation in the centre.

then he rises to attend to customers, leaving me at the table with his student and his brother.

there are no fewer than five compases on the square table. one, with a special arm for use on ceramic, rests on a pink sponge covered with drips of white clay. there is a plastic tub of sugarcubes and a packet of french cigarettes under a lighter decorated with turkish eyes. there is a turkish-english dictionary, and a box of tea glasses that maybe holds pencils and pens, the cardboard scribbled on endlessly. squares of tissue paper, gray with graphite, crinkle in the breeze that comes through the open door.

the student, to my left, wields a blue brush against a white plate. the plate is very white. it is a special kind of white clay, imported from Kütayha, which is where the owner and his brother are from. the white plate has a double border of two blue circles pained on, even and round and smoothly done. within the circles is a slightly smudged grid of tiny pencilled-in dots. nearby is a glass teacup that holds blue paint. the painter dips a chisel brush in and spreads dark wet paint onto a white tile, over lighter, drier blue paint from before. then he picks up a tiny fine brush, dips it, pauses, and begins.

he holds the plate in his left hand, anchors the pinkie of his right on its surface, and draws the first stroke. then he turns one fifth of the way at a time and makes four identical strokes to make the first lines of a star-shaped flower at the centre of the pattern. this is a design based on five.

he does the broad lines first. from each of the five petals springs the stem of another flower. five more flowers curl in from the outer border.

he uses his brush like a calligrapher, going from thin to wide using angle, rather than pressure. he paints without thinking. he angles in the stamens of the flowers, steering the brush sometimes over the guide-dots, sometimes between. he sees me watching and when my eyes widen he makes a gesture to say, so-so.

to my right, the brother works on a plate painted with an undercoat of flat gray. he works with his eyes close to the point of his instrument, which is a squeeze bottle so fine it uses a stick pin for a cap. he is doing a pattern based on woven lace from the women's craft bazaar up the way. it is a pattern based on six, eight and sixteen. there are six white circles around one in the centre, making a six-way set of arcs inside a hexagon; then eight leaves in a wider circle beyond. then there are sixteen curving triangles.

the brother works one segment at a time, unlike the student who works arc by arc, round and round. the brother draws in the thick, wide curves first, then ornaments them with spirals, then puts down hundreds of dots to fill the space, so that there is as much white paint overtop as there is gray underneath. every few points he cleans the tip of his instrument on the sponge, leaving white drips. when a segment is done he looks up, blinks, and reaches for his tea glass. after two segments of sixteen, his tea glass is empty and he refills it. he fills mine.

by this time the student has finished and it is time for his plate to dry so that more detail can be added in later. he carries it over to a stack of half finished plates, with bubblewrap between them. he gets tea, refills mine too. then he rubs his hands, and starts on the next piece. there is a stack of three more on the table, a dozen more by the door. he bangs the table as he sits down again: tea sploshes.

the desk behind the stove has a jar of pencils, a calculator and a ledger book. there are a dozen unfinished pieces waiting there, candlesticks and waterjugs, done in blue unglazed and unfired, with preliminary circles put down in white, more perfect than perfect. when the store owner returns he takes a book from behind his desk and hands it to me. it is a huge book navy blue book with no title on the front cover. the title page inside states: the pottery of ottoman turkey. it is an inch thick, pages glossy.

the student finishes all three of the white plates on the table before i am done turning the book's pages.

plates hang everywhere on the walls of the store. the biggest ones hang highest up, the smaller ones lower. they are organized by style. one wall is all white and blue and geometric. there are all kinds of variations on the tree of life. there are tulips, carnations, roses. there are brighter, more colourful, smaller plates nearest the door -- "for business," brought in from kütahya. also near the door are clocks, and fish and butterflies in orange.

from the crosspieces that divide the room into four hand spherical ornaments on knotted cords. there are shelves of vases, ashtrays, ceramic birds, turtledoves, ladybugs, slippers, cats. there is exactly one cat that has a paw raised to bat in playfulness. the shelves fit precisely in the arched windows. there is one shelf of doublehanded wine jugs like i recognize from the anatolian museum, terracotta with animals and lines in black and dots of red. there are open shelves in the centre with tea and coffee cups, bowls and saucers in pastel colours. there are urns. there are birdbaths.

the turquoise pieces get a room almost to themselves. there are greens and browns as well. looking at the array of them it is clear how green and brown are related colours of blue -- you can see it, you can almost taste the sweetsavoury glaze. many of the pieces have brushstroke calligraphy with geometric designs around.

my favourite by far is a plate with six circles woven around one central spiral. the spirals are vines and there are tiny, even leaves. it is blue on china white.

there are thousands of hours of work represented in this shop. the owner tells me that at night he does not bother to bring in his display pieces from out front.

goreme : a sketch

goreme has two poles: the bus station at one end and the mosque at the other. separating the two is about a five minute walk.

there are three lanes that run between the two ends. on the one side is the roadway with a median painted with flaking yellow paint. in the middle is a sitting area with picnic tables and wrought iron lamp posts, trees that aren't yet in bloom, and torn branches on the cobblestones, a sign perhaps of a difficult winter. the picnic area is flanked by pines and cedars. beyond, on the other side, is the brick walkway, with shops and carpet boutiques.

out either end of the main street you can see the desert badlands. the traffic lights at the bus station end flash yellow except during morning and evening rush hour when then cycle. little metal signs point the way to small hotels.

the buildings here are mostly stone, white stone with dust that sticks to my dark clothes, and pink granite for ornamentation, like in arches over doors. the stone bricks have quarrymarks that look like they were make with a fork, like on the top of a peanut butter cookie. on every roof is a satellite dish and a solar water heater. the power lines run low.

tourists walk with plastic bags of bread and fruits. i recognize the lithuanian girls from my hostel, wearing sunglasses now. an old man and woman walk hand in hand. a man rides by on a horse. the sound of rusty bells from a carriage running on wood wheels behind a donkey.

it is a tourist town. the cafes and restaurants have placards in front in english. one states, in caps, if you don't like, you don't <pay>. many restaurants with clay pots on display out front, for baking turkish dishes; the pots blackened and sometimes cracked.

each store has a bright plastic sign above the entrance, and often posters in the windows. camera shops will transfer memory cards to cd. drugstores advertise batteries. many shops sell inflatable neck pillows. most stores have postcards on racks out front. the deals get better further from the bus station; five postcards for one lira, then ten; further up, eleven. restaurants have shaded patios, tables with tablecloths, wicker chairs, potted plants. music coming from one.

outside the little food markets, coolers with bottled water, cartons of juice, bottles of Efes, tubs of ayran. blue plastic bins stacked with fruits and vegetables. 6's of 2L coke bottles in shrinkwrapped plastic. in the windows there are glass cases holding loaves of goldcrust bread. iceboxes hold ice cream treats under sliding glass tops; milk and chocolate pictured on the front. inside the markets, shelves of chocolate bars, cookies, tea, dish soap; deli counters with cheese and sausage.

construction: stacks of marble slabs, piles of broken brick. sometimes, the sound of rock pieces dumped down a chute into a dumpster below. the sound of hammers. a pile of mismatched granite blocks with paint on mismatched sides.

there are a few cars parked in both directions along one side of the main street. further up, the picnic area ends and a parking lot begins, mostly filled with white tourbuses. the sound of motorbikes and tractors.

at the edge of the town is the cemetary. trees grow out of sand. i hear a bird i have never heard before: fast chatterclucking.

often in the mornings it is rainey; often in the afternoons, sunny. today is such a day. i am in the hostel common area. the wind comes down the chimeny of the common area and bafs the styrofoam that has been cut and fitted to keep out the draft. from the kitchen i smell them cooking eggplants and sweet vegetables.

in the caves

today while exploring the rose valley -- where the soil is pink -- i climbed up into the caves, people's homes from back when life was different.

strange! nothing left behind at all from the people that lived there, except for broken down straw on the dusty ground. there were however plastic bottles and beer bottle caps from people who climb up to watch the sunsets and put the moves on their girls; in one of the caves, an entire rusting hibachi.

bits of the floor scuff free under your feet and there are loose pebbles in the walls, but i could not crumble the caves where they did not themselves want to be crumbled.

most of the caves i looked at had one only room. some of the more complex ones had low walls, platforms for sitting or some that looked big enough for sleeping. one had a second room you got to down a long narrow hallway, and steps to take you up to one of the higher levels, and a hole cut through to let light in from above.

the caves all had alcoves cut into the walls where the inhabitants would place candles or oil lamps. one cave had a hearth with a sooty fire scar and clay blocks where you could place meat to cook it.

i climbed up into one cave, pulled myself up into it: but it was no ordinary cave. right away you could see it had an interior door with a cross painted over it in red, and caverns cut into the ground that you could see were once covered with wooden planks. through the entrance under the cross and you were in a cave church, with a high vaulted ceiling carved, painted, and four pillars, cut into the rock like those chinese lions with freerolling spheres in the teeth, the whole thing cut from one piece. at the front was the altar and there was a little soot mark on the wall like the ghost of a candle, and yellow wax dripped onto the rock beneath like its earthly remains. red painted triangles and crosses on the walls.

to live in a cave. very possible for life to be different.