Observing

I say very little these days. Not that I've ever said much, but each day it becomes more apparent that there's nothing I can add that hasn't been added before. Teaching's thrilling and tiring. Students are wonderful and difficult. Our brains are getting smarter and dumber. The ocean's getting trashed while we research how we're trashing it. Religion causes problems and soothes problems. Authors write good and bad and interesting books and new music pulses out of every corner and the cheese is amazing and the beer is bland, but I don't like beer that much anyways. Do you?

I've always wondered how people who are good at talking and getting others to talk choose what to say. Of all the questions and topics and intriguing tidbits to say to someone, how do you choose? How do you choose the one or two things that will lead to anything new for either of you, or at least lead to a connection and a good conversation and a better understanding of who that person is? Other people are mysterious planets to me and one of the few ways of trying to understand them is by talking. Conversing. It's such a basic, daily ritual that I've never really thought about until now. Now that it's slipping further and further from my comprehension, along with the words that I've stopped saying because they feel pointless. It seems to be making me an outsider against my will, but in some ways I'm okay with that. I've almost always preferred observing over participating.

Though I do miss feeling close to anyone.        

I can pretend

I don't know if it's dumb or conceited or what, but listening to the silly recordings of the songs I wrote last year has been weirdly comforting lately. Maybe it's 'cause I miss the keys more than I want to acknowledge. Maybe it's 'cause I doubt I'll ever write songs again. Maybe it's 'cause keyboards are pricey here and I'll just have to pretend for an undetermined amount of time that I'm playing. And I miss those blinds and the pine trees on the other side of them.

Life from a balcony

Last night I ate dinner on my balcony for the first time. I frequently eat breakfast out there, at 7am, standing and staring into the layers upon layers of 7 story apartment buildings and wondering about the day, chewing and waiting for the coffee to brew. The metal spoon against the glass bowl always sounds really loud and embarrassing at that time and I try to not let them meet, but that's surprisingly difficult to do. There's usually this guy across the street and one floor up out on his balcony, too, but he's always staring in the opposite direction, puffing on cigarettes. As far as I know, he has never taken notice of me, nor been bothered by my breakfast utensil clinks. He just sits and stares and, other than his smoking arm, doesn't move for the entire 10 minutes that I am out there. His stillness and smoke make him seem sad to me. Like the day is too difficult to bear and the people milling about 6 stories below are too terrifying to face. But he can't do that forever and every day I hope he'll get up or turn around or go inside or do SOMETHING before I have to leave, but that day has yet to come. I silently bid him farewell and go about my day and hope for better luck and higher spirits tomorrow. Last night, though, I discovered that everything balcony-related is different in the late hours. Everyone's on their balcony, eating as a family, shaking out laundry, watching the city lights slowly turn on, entertaining friends, chatting across alleyways with neighbors. The clinks of my own cutlery don't even register in comparison to the nighttime balcony life of my neighbors. It's like a little sneak peek into a more intimate side of their lives. Like having the walls of all of their living rooms removed for me to see, and it's delightful. Especially when it comes to my sad neighbor across the street. Last night, as I slowly worked on my plate of sauteed pumpkin and carrots, I could hear him telling what I assume, based on the laughter, were jokes to his wife on their balcony while they ate. He was still smoking, but it had become the least of his mannerisms instead of his entirety. The darkness of the morning had evaporated and been replaced with a wide smile, a loud laugh, and a kind voice. I think I'd like to get to know him. I think I can relate to his reluctance to embrace the day, but his eventual acceptance and ultimate love of being alive. I can relate to not wanting the silence to end, but then also not wanting it to begin. And I can definitely relate to not being a morning person.

And now I'm going to go stand on my balcony for a while, listening to life and feeling like a part of something I'm really only a witness to.          

The Lunch Line

It starts in the school lunch line, a place that feels awkward at any age, day after day. First with pointing and either nodding yes or shaking no, smiling either way and getting quantities beyond my capacity. Next I try out pointing and saying either "hayir" for no or "evet" for yes and achieve the same result, but in a slightly more civilized manner. Then comes my botched "cok az", which means very little, but I only say "cok", which means lots, so I get a pile of pasty mashed potatoes on half of my plate. The next day I get it right and end up with tidy little piles of okra, chicken, and rice that don't get mixed up too much in the process. And soon I'm adding in the words for what I what I've learned (which isn't much and relates almost entirely to food) - cok az patates, lutfen, ve cok az pilaf, ve bu. A few potatoes, please, a splash o' rice, and that (chicken), and I'm set, desired food in hand and grateful that the servers smile and bid me a pleasant meal no matter how crude and uncivilized my manner of ordering is. Only they are bearing real witness to my puny, snail-paced language development and I kind of love them.