At some point, the unreliable become reliable.
And the unpredictable become predictable.
And the misunderstood become understandable.
And the beautiful and the terrible both become bearable.

other people's words, part 2

As the title indicates, I didn't write this. I don't know how to write anymore. A student I've never met wrote it. And it reminded me that it's good to be here and it hits the nail on the head and I really want to share it.

'A few miles in the opposite direction away from the sparkling shores of the Mediterranean Sea is a farm like village place called Dosemealti. The smell of goats and dead rabbits consume this place. But deep within this jungle, somewhere as far as DC15's final stop lays something special, treasure. Rare gems from all parts of the globe, stretching out from countries as distant as Papa New Guinea or Mozambique to local gems from Turkey can be found here. Where could this place be? Yes, you've guessed it! ANTALYA INTERNATIONAL UNIVERSITY!'

other people's words

one boy grew up different from the rest
without the insides of his chest
he didn't know how
he was blessed

asaf avidan

O, cat.

I've been thinking a lot lately about people and animals that are now dead. Not in a depressing way, but in a pleasant way. I must have been about eleven when I wrote my first message to Taco. I was sure that if I wrote in big. bright enough letters, she'd be able to not only see the words on the page, but make meaning out of them, too. And be able to pick up the marker and respond. Hi, Taco, I wrote. How are you? Are you okay? Do you like me? I love you.

I was pretty sure she wouldn't respond if I sat there watching and waiting, so I left the marker, uncapped of course, and the piece of paper sitting right in front of her on the windowsill. When I glanced back on my way out, she was staring intently at the marker, figuring out with all her might, I assumed, how to respond to such an intriguing inquiry into her life. The moment she'd been waiting for. I was a little nervous about what she'd say, but I really wanted to know if she, my beloved fat cat, actually liked me. While I wandered around outside, I imagined all the things she was writing, tediously, marker clamped between teeth, on the paper.
I like you, I guess. Whatever. Just don't pull my tail anymore. I hate that.

I used to get Taco to come out from under the bed so I could play or cuddle with her by pulling her out by the tail. By the time I was eleven, I had stopped doing that and I still feel bad about it. The little stupid things that somehow end up bothering you for the rest of your life. It's weird to think that I once did something cruel to an animal that I loved, or any animal. But I probably did something worse somewhere back in the early days. It just doesn't stick out in my memory.

I gave Taco nearly an hour. I wanted to make sure she had plenty of time to respond fully, but I also wanted to hold on to the little bit of magic I felt when I pictured her reading my message, thinking about it, and writing a response. Somewhere in the maturing part of my mind, in the part that was becoming more aware of reality and less attuned to magic, I knew that cats can't read. And they can't write. I didn't want to have to accept that.

When I returned, I immediately saw that the paper was exactly where I had left it on the windowsill, but Taco was nowhere to be seen. My heart sank a little. BUT! I realized, heart perking back up, the marker had also disappeared. I ran to the paper to see what she had written. Maybe it was bad news that she didn't want to have to watch me react to. I stared at the paper for a while, accepting things I didn't want to accept. Under the bed nearby, Taco snoozed off the activity of batting the marker across the room instead of answering my sincere questions. Maybe she dreamt of freedom. Maybe she dreamt of her kitten days. Maybe she dreamt of nothing at all.

  

Vois sur ton chemin.

Look to the path. It could lead you or one of your favorite songs anywhere.

Nightmares Abound

Somebody in my neighborhood is practicing the piano. Every now and then, they make a mistake, but it sounds good. It sounds clear and bright and cheerful, like what you'd expect to hear coming from a piano at a Mothers' Day brunch. Hopeful.
In a different neighborhood far away, but not too far, my Syrian friend's family is thinking about how they'll get bread and vegetables tomorrow. Will they cross the street to buy what they need or will they go with what little they have left. If they cross the street, will they get shot or will the friend behind them get shot or will it be okay.
In a different neighborhood quite far away, my mom's friend's husband is recovering from a stroke and dying from cancer and getting ready for a surgery to repair his broken arm.
In my apartment, cockroaches and spiders and flies are dying from the pesticide that was sprayed on Friday, and are then getting flushed down the toilet. In comparison, it is nothing.
But what beauty is left here? Is the piano enough to make up for the nightmares we all face and the nightmares we all create?
  

I don't want to be loud, but sometimes I get tired of being quiet in a world that favors the presence of sound.
I don't want to be a man, but sometimes I get tired of being a woman in a world that favors the presence of men.

Dear Stranger,

Dare I say friend. I wouldn't be writing to you, but I'm afraid my situation has become quite dire. I believe my life is indeed in danger. I've been trapped in this room for over a week now and can find no way out. I've tried crawling under the door, but something's blocking it. Books, maybe? I've explored every square inch of this room and can find no crack, no crevice, no weakness. If this letter is to reach you, whoever you are, perhaps you can send help? I don't even know where I am, so I can't give you directions. All I can do is hope that somebody, anybody finds this in time and knows what to do.

All I remember was trying to fly home from Tivak Park. Then a powerful burst of wind blew me into this room. This damn room. At first, I thought it'd be okay. I was a bit flustered and frightened, but I clung to the curtains as the wind died down and I started to feel warm and safe. I knew I was in one of your homes. I could tell. It's easy to spot a human home...with all the lights and straight lines and carpet and fake things. And food. Your homes are very comfortable, I must say, but I didn't want to stay there. It wasn't my home.

Just as I was about to take off through the window and back into the night and try to find my way, a lady appeared in front of me. I've never come so close to a human before. She could see me from across the room and didn't take her eyes off me. She walked slowly up to me, and then just stared, without making a sound. A perfectly still, silent stare. For a long time. I thought maybe it'd be okay. Maybe she didn't mind me being there for a bit. Her expression was very difficult to read. So I decided not to try and fly at that instant. It might frighten her. Us cockroaches have a bad reputation for being frightening to humans. Well, you know now. I'm a cockroach. But I'm not that bad. I'm not. I've got a family and I feel horribly knowing that they must be worried sick about me right now.

I wish now I had flown. Right at her face and right out of that room, instead of sitting there like a hopeful idiot while she slowly closed the window, backed out of the room, and then returned with her phone. I could be at home now, safe and warm under the kitchen sink with my family. Instead, I just sat there, feeling a bit stunned that she was taking my picture. For the briefest of moments, I thought she actually liked me. I thought she was taking my picture because she thought I was beautiful and interesting and that she was glad I was there. And that she wasn't like those other humans that throw shoes at me. I thought maybe we were turning over some sort of new leaf in the human-cockroach interaction. Ha, I'm such an idiot.

After she took my picture, she stood there in front of me, never letting me out of her sight, for a long time, looking at something on her phone. I know now that she was researching cockroaches and how to kill them. As you might guess, things got worse for me at that point. You humans are so strange. So selfish. You fill the world with the fruits and fouls of your labor, you take everything from us, from the world, and turn it into something fancy, something stupid - a basketball, a car, a parking lot, a latte, a magazine, a cookie - and you get angry at us when we accidentally show up in your home.

Your home? This tall and crumbling block apartment that has been here for a mere 30 years? Where you sit amongst your items. Where you surround yourself by the outputs of other people's tiresome jobs. Where there used to be, not that long ago, orange trees and olive branches and pelicans and goats and leopards and sea turtles. And cockroaches. Your apartment here is 30 years old. My home here is 250 million years old. And the respect I am shown is a spray bottle full of soap and water, from which I barely escaped. Then a slammed door. And now silence. Nothingness. No escape.

A room full of your things and I am miserable and dying and alone. So if you, my friend, my kind stranger, happen to find this letter, could you please tell her to let me out. Tell her to let me go back to my home. To my dear sweet family. To what has been mine for millions of years. Please convince her that this is not right. It isn't fair. I have the feeling that I am not going to last much longer, but at least I know that I am only one of many. That 30 years is nothing compared to 250 million. That my family's future is going to last longer than yours. That your things and your jobs have gotten you nowhere, and that we will persist in being where we belong, where we always have been, for the duration of your visit here.
Just tell her that for me, could you please? Thanks.                

I fell asleep with the breeze and awoke with the wind. The wind was strong enough that it was carrying the stars away, one by one. My little pellets of night light were being taken away. Far away. I knew immediately that this was tragic and I'd miss them deeply. But they were happier there, together with the wind, far away. I got up and closed the balcony door. I fell back asleep with stillness and stumbled into a monsters' wedding where I was laughed at and poked in the ribs and made to stand on a table alone. The bride and the groom stood in front of me with stones in their gnarly hands. Their noses were huge and bulbous and flopping down in front of their jagged, crooked mouths so that none of their words made any sense. Eventually, sunlight dissipated the wedding party and dissolved the stones and brought me back to life. I don't dream often anymore, but when I do it's terrifying.        

To be liked.

My favorite pictures are often the ones that few people like. Weird lighting, my feet in a place or on a day that means something to me, something old, something surprising. I like those pictures. I do. But they're not the popular ones. Expansive landscapes, flowers, sunsets, cute animals. I'll take more and more pictures of them because that's what is liked. Not the meaningful ones. If I could take away one invention of my lifetime, it'd be the like button. In all of its forms. Because who doesn't want to be liked. And who doesn't shape themselves and what they do and what they say and what they show in order to be as liked as possible by the people in their lives. Instead of being the being that they are or the being that they want to be, they think about the being that is liked. Who is that being? Made up of stupid little clicks that somehow take on meaning, and yet are typically given without a thought. Generating confidence in their presence, and casting doubt in their absence. I'm glad you have no way to like this blog. Otherwise it'd probably be a very different blog. Full of daisies and selfies and words that mean nothing to me.            

But I'm glad that you're here.

This Summer.

I spent 3 days in Flagstaff, listening to and telling my old friends stories, wandering up to Lowell, gaping at the night sky, drinking Macy's Specials, eating popcorn and toasting Pabst B Ribbons at the castle, walking my friend's dogs. I felt my Flagstaff happiness return and didn't really want to leave and could picture myself living there again, some day.

I spent 6 weeks in Princeton, working in a cubicle with two monitors, stacks of paper, and meeting reminders, and not minding it one bit, making new friends who shared a love for puns and science and ice cream and quiet, walking miles and miles around the campus and along the canals and through the neighborhoods, pondering how a place could be so green, listening to Yolanda's stories on Mexico and life, trying to catch lightning bugs and squirrels on camera. I felt a new kind of happiness and didn't want to leave it behind and could picture myself living there again, some day.

I spent 4 weeks in Reno, passing precious time and eating mounds of kale with my mom and sister, getting one last, quiet, indescribably beautiful day with the Dusty Dude, playing new, slow songs on my old favorite piano, catching up with old friends, driving cars and finding cars to drive,  making coffee for my mom in the mornings, kickboxing until the familiar blisters returned, shopping a little bit too much for myself and friends, making another visit to American Flats with dad and Austen and Jaden, and, of course, not having enough time to go to Lake Tahoe or do the other billion things I always think of to do when I visit home. It's a place of unconditional happiness and I will always envision myself living there again, some day.

I returned to Antalya yesterday, where I found my apartment surprisingly clean and welcoming, despite a 2 months' thin layer of dust, where I have good friends who I am excited to see and who are excited to see me, where I can walk for hours and never really get tired, where people compliment my horrible Turkish and are pleasantly bemused by the fact that I am American, and where there are so many cool places to visit every weekend it's a little overwhelming. This is where I live now, today, and I am happy about that.

Every year, the world becomes more freckled with the places and the people that I love.          

A rare moment.

I'm at my best when the sun is bright, the temperature is cool, and my mind is occupied by the thoughts and feelings of no one.

Squirrels.

I wonder what kinds of wars and riots squirrels would have if they had the ability to research, document, and remember everything that ever happened in the entire history of the existence of squirrels. What would they be like if they could remember the fights of the generation before them, who were fighting the fights of the generation before them, who were fighting the fights of the generation before them, each generation of squirrels adding some sort of new fight for the next generation of squirrels to remember and carry on. Until the entire population of squirrels knew how to do nothing but fight and remember all of the reasons that ever arose in their entire history to hate. I wonder what they'd be like then.

The Other Side

How does he decide?

What's that?

How does he decide who goes where?

What do you mean?

Everyone's saying if you do this, you'll go to heaven. If you do that, you'll go to hell.

You mean God?

Yeah. How does he decide? They said that he decides.

Oh...well...I think he sends you to heaven if you do good things. You've got nothing to worry about, kiddo.

But how does he decide what's good? How do I know if I'm doing good things?

I don't think you need to worry about it. Use your own judgement...do the things you think are good things. You'll feel it if you're doing something bad. Usually people kind of feel it when they're doing something bad.

Like squishing bugs?

Maybe. Does it feel bad to squish bugs?

Kind of.

Then you probably shouldn't do it.

I like to think...he brings them all together. And let's them decide.

What do you mean? The bugs?

Mm-hmm. I think he decides from them. I think when you die he brings everything you've ever touched in your whoooooole life, every living thing you've ever done anything to...like bugs and dogs and people...he brings them all together. And all the things that you were nice to and helped and maybe saved, all of them line up on one side. The good side. The heaven side. And all of the things you were mean to, or maybe even killed, line up on the other side. The hell side.

You mean the bad side.

Yeah.

So all the bugs you squished will be on the bad side?

Yeah. That's your bad side, where you were mean. Where you squished bugs and kicked dogs. They're all there, angry at you. The two sides all line up and face eachother and growl and spit and get ready to fight. The good side wants you to go to heaven, cause you helped them. They like you. The bad side doesn't want you to go to heaven.

Cause you were mean to them.

Cause you were mean, yeah. They don't like you. Both sides're all lined up...and God's got this flag. And you're standing off to the left, waiting for them to decide. God holds up his flag in the air, then he swishes it down real fast, like this, fffwish. When he does that, all the animals, everything on the good side and everything on the bad side, charge at each other. And fight.

They fight?

Yeah, but...you know, they don't hurt each other. It isn't really real. It's not real. It's just this thing that God does to decide. I think.

Oh.

So they fight and fight and fight until one of the sides wins. If you've been good and nice to things, the good side will be a lot bigger. And stronger. And they'll win pretty easy. Then God decides that you get to go to heaven and hang out with all those animals that like you. But if you've been kinda bad, that side will be bigger and stronger. They'll beat the good side pretty quick.

Then what happens?

God sends you to hell. So you go there and you have to be around all those animals that don't like you. And people. Who you hurt.

That doesn't sound good.

But that's how he decides.

How do you know?

How else would he decide?

I don't know, kiddo. I don't know. That's a lota animals to worry about.

Yeah, but you just have to be nice to them. It's not that hard.

Well. When the time comes, I'll be on your good side, k?

K. Thanks.

You're going nowhere but up.

K....I'll be on your good side, too. K?

K.

 

Like Most Things

I don't miss the piano until I remember that it exists. And that I know how to play it. And that I like to play. Because it brings me joy. And then my heart hurts for a while. Until I forget that it exists.

on the bus to teaneck new jersey

i don't get that guy.

what guy?

that guy up there yellin' at that lady to GET OFF THE F'ING BUS.

oh...yeah.

why's he like that?

yeah.

i mean, why be like that? we all come from the same place, we're all goin' the same place. why be like that?

i know.

what's it worth? all this fightin'. yellin'.

i know, i know. terrible.

all over the place. don't they understand? don't they get it? it don't matter. fightin' over this land, fightin' over that land, fightin' over this f'ing bus. fightin' about who's right. fightin' about who's better...fightin'...fightin'.

fightin'.

we all come from the same place...we're all goin' the same place. in the end. right? you know what i mean?

mmhmm.

we're all startin' in union square...startin' there...and endin' at 42nd and broadway. that's where we end. all a us. that's all we gotta do is get there. that's all we GONNA do. some of us gonna walk. some of us gonna drive. soma us take a taxi. soma us gonna bike...soma us take a damn jet. but nona that gonna matter...cause we all gonna end in that same damn spot. we all gonna be there. all a us.  

the same.

the same. so, i'm sayin', why be like that. why BE like that.

On a Sunday

Sunday walks are my favorite walks. I love walking on any day of the week, but particularly on Sundays. People seem friendlier. Yards look better kept. Cars drive slower. Dogs bark softer. I'm fully prepared to accept the fact that all of this is in my mind. It's as though everyone in the city, myself included, has gotten the questionable stuff out of their system over the weekend and is thinking about the week ahead as they water their gardens or watch their kids play or chat with their neighbor or heat up the coals, and have no time to give much thought to the strange lady walking alone at sunset down the sidewalk. As though we all - both them and me - believe that no harm can come to us on a Sunday. Maybe it's a remnant of my days in Sunday school surfacing, giving me a false sense of security on the holy day. Every other day of the week, I wish I had a more obvious reason for walking. A dog. A bag of groceries. A flashy camera. A casserole to deliver. Anything to answer the questions that I imagine arising in the minds and the eyes around me. On Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, I feel like I'm slightly somehow inadvertently propositioning every thing that I walk by. I sense sideways glances and pauses in low-toned weekend-business discussions. Like I, despite my calm appearance, could potentially do or say something to get the party started at any second. Or maybe they just need to say something to me, then I'll get the party started. I scurry past each person, each group, purposeful and with a set jaw, till I'm well out of party-starting range. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I feel kind of creepy when I walk. Like parents get one look at me and call their kids in for dinner, in where it's safe from the strange lady walking down the street alone. Dogs don't seem to trust me on those days, either. Trotting away with their ears low, ready to nip at the weirdo who just wants to give them a pat. Neighbors watch me walk by, noticing my resemblance to the menacing character on the "neighborhood watch" signs posted all over the place, the one with the pointy black hat and cape and a large red X over it. I've always wondered how those signs work. Do people in a neighborhood really get together and say to each other "let's watch out for one another and show those bad guys they can't mess with any of us...'cause if they mess with one neighbor, they mess with the whole neighborhood!" and then they cheer and hoist their signs high in the air and go around, together as neighbors, and plant those signs. Frightening the bad guys and the strange ladies. I hope that's how they work. I feel none of these hidden, and probably mostly imagined, thoughts from people on a Sunday. All I sense from people on a Sunday, if I sense anything at all, is "I hope nothing bad happens to that nice lady walking down the street alone." That's all I sense in the smiles, nods, waves, and good evenings. Enough to make a strange lady's heart soar and to make walking every day of the week worth it.            

Pie.

For a while, I was pretty sure I was moving back home this summer and not renewing my contract, as many of my posts on here might have indicated. What a roller coaster. One week, I was in love with Turkey, the next I wanted nothing more than to curl up on the couch beside my mom and never leave again. One day, I told my boss that I wouldn't be back next year. A couple days later, I told him that I changed my mind and would like to stay. And both times when I spoke with him, I was sure of what I was saying. Sure of my decision. Luckily, I haven't felt the strong urge to change my mind again, even now that I've been back in Reno for a few days, reconnecting with friends, reestablishing my role as a family member, reacquainting myself with a place that will always feel like home. Home, home. I know that at the end of the summer, I'll be returning to Turkey for another year. And I'm pretty sure I'll be looking forward to it.

The thing is, I'm always going to miss my family and Reno. I'm always going to miss my grad school cohort. I'm always going to miss my PC Romania friends and my old high school drama buddies. I'm never going to live those lives again. They're gone. If I tried to move back to and recreate any past time of happiness, it would never feel the same. I imagine it would only feel hollow and superficial. I do, at times, really miss my old self and the person I was in those places. I'm not wildly different depending on where I am, but I feel like there's some inner glow that I just don't or didn't feel in certain places and stages of my life. Glow is a cheesy word, but I can't think of any other word to describe it. I didn't feel glowy in China. At all. And I didn't feel it much when I was in Eugene, either. It's a certain self-confidence and contentedness that makes me not question and dissect everything I do. It makes me laugh more. It makes me happier. I don't understand fully what that inner glow depends on, but it doesn't feel as bright as I'd like it to in Turkey. And that's part of why I think I want to stay. What is it that I'm lacking there that I had elsewhere, where the glow was more solid? Can I create it on my own, anywhere? Does it mean I need a new hobby? I need more people? Closer people? More sleep? Better Turkish? A bigger piano? A different job? Stronger coffee? I want to figure this glow thing out and see if I can master it. Master myself. My thoughts and my own happiness. I know that it is, mostly, all up to me, but jeez what a big task. Making myself happy. It's easier to blame outside things - mean people, a bad job, a crappy apartment. But those are all things that I am in control of and can change. I can choose and adjust the adjectives that go with those nouns. There's no reason for me to be unhappy and unglowy in Turkey. So, my task for next year is to dissect life piece by piece and find the pieces that bring about the most significant amount of glowiness and cultivate them. Preserve them in a jam jar. Maybe I'll even make a pie chart or a graph or something displaying the results of my dissecting. Or just a pie. Pie is pretty glowy.              

So they say

Somebody made fun of me. Without humor, in front of me, hoping I wouldn't notice. Later, I went for a walk and let a sorrow that I haven't felt for a long time roll around and scrape at my guts. It must have been laundry day because most balconies had clothes hanging, swaying in the breeze. The chests of the shirts puffed up as they breathed in the breeze and shrunk as they breathed out. The skirts fluttered. I think about stupidity sometimes, especially when I walk. About my own stupidity and the various ways it comes out. No, I don't think I'm stupid. Somewhere a while back, I talked about the ways that I'm dumb. It's not in all ways, just in some ways. I say dumb things a lot. I'm comfortable with having my dumb moments. They might bother other people, but I don't mind them. In some ways, I like them. They make up part of who I am. As I walked, I saw a woman holding her full grown golden retriever like a baby while the neighborhood kids gathered around and reached to touch its fur. When she put him back down, he immediately rolled onto his back and pawed at the sky so the kids would have easy belly-rubbing access. In the background, the dark grey clouds in the sky brought out the purple in the flowering trees and made them look electric. Like big purple light bulbs against a grey ceiling. Little pockets of beauty to make me feel better. That's when I realized that everyone is dumb. In some ways, in at least one way, everyone is dumb. Everyone. No one can be good and smart and gifted at everything. I'm dumb at talking. Big deal. Anyone who focuses on that, on the dumbness of the people around them, is dumb at empathy. And that's okay. We've all got our weaknesses, our dumbness. I rounded a corner and nearly ran into two young girls, maybe 10-ish. One was grinning menacingly while pushing the other, struggling and near tears, towards a group of boys playing soccer. I wanted to stop them and tell them that it'll be okay. That they'll grow out of this. Some day down the road, they'll grow out of this. Or so they say.
But I kept walking.      

I don't care.

There are lots of things that I don't care about any more. Things that I used to, at least mildly, care about, and recently realized that I just don't anymore. And kinda don't want to care about. Things like being knowledgeable, seeming intelligent, being described as "well read" or "articulate". Talking about interesting things for the sake of talking about interesting things. Being interesting. Anything related to how others perceive me, I guess. Fitting anyone else's definition of cool or popular or entertaining or witty or great. I don't care. Maybe it's age? Maturity? It's not that I want to be lame or boring - I just don't care anymore if that's what I am to somebody else. It seems as of late all I care about being is my own definition of a good person. It's kind of nice to have that one simple thing as a guide to being me instead of all those other things that people want me, and everyone, to be. Each person wants everyone else to fall into some sort of category they've created in their head. We make up our own definition of cool, of interesting, of boring and then apply that definition to everyone we meet. The thing that has always kinda bothered me about me is that I try to match everyone else's definition of cool as I get to know them. I lose track of my own definition. At least I used to. And now I just don't care. Everyone at the dinner table might be talking about ___________ and how great of a book/movie/tv show/animal/place/thing it is and I'm kinda suddenly totally okay with having absolutely nothing to say. Three or four or even two years ago, that would not have been the case.

This is all I care about:
Finding the positive in every person/place/thing and letting that be their defining feature. Shrugging off the negative, as much as possible. Interacting with the understanding that everyone is full of dreams and despair at the same time - including me, including you, including the people that nobody likes - regardless of the face each of us tries to show to the world. Loving and fearing and respecting the fact that each person, each brain, is a complex, convoluted world of its own and I'm never really going to understand anyone else. And no one is ever going to really understand me. And remembering that it's all going to be okay, in the end. Because lots of stuff matters to each individual person, but nothing really does actually matter. To everything. To most things. In the entire history of time, in the entire expanse of the universe, not one single thing that happens in anyone's life matters. At all. I find that comforting, somehow.              

The Current Dilemma

I can't decide which size bottle of contact solution to buy. Do I go with the super-sized bottle, which would last me months and would be impractical to pack for trips and is really only meant to be bought by someone who is staying in one place for a while. Someone who is content enough with their situation to renew their teaching contract for another year and store their contact solution on its own shelf in their admittedly spacious bathroom. Or do I go with the petite bottle, which is meant to be bought by people prone to moving, people who need a bottle that can go on airplanes and not weigh them down. A bottle that would fit in the tiniest of unknown bathrooms and would last a little over a month, just enough time to finish out my teaching contract and get me back home to America. By my estimates, I've got about 5 days till my current bottle runs dry...5 more days to decide which size bottle to buy. Oof.  

Where is my mind?

Normally, I wouldn't put a piano song here that I didn't come up with, but I've been a little bit obsessed with this one, and this question, lately. I've been working on it over the past 3 months and it has replaced Yann Tiersen's Comptine d'un autre ete and La dispute as the first AND last songs that I play whenever I sit down at the keyboard. And those two have been my favorites for YEARS. I always feel weird and show-offy putting songs on here, but I don't know. It's my blog...a place where I put thoughts and things that occupy my mind, and this is definitely one of them as of late.

As for where my mind is, I think it has fragmented into two and a half minds. One that has traveled into the past and sits nostalgically in the memories of being at the brink of this wandering life, before I ditched all my friendships and family for the sake of excitement, newness, and seeming brave and unique; one that has traveled into the future and dreams up all the other realities I could have, mostly involving a golden retriever named Ashby who'll read books with me and help me dig holes in my garden, waiting patiently for me to return from my slightly boring day job to go on a nice long adventure walk around my quaint city, dotted with local, dog-friendly coffee shops and friends; and the remaining little half lives here, in Antalya, trying to figure out what's up with the other two bigger and kinda obnoxious minds. Striving for rationality, shooing away distractions, and seeking out common ground from all of my minds. Good luck, little guy.

That's where my mind goes when I play this song. 

If you've listened to the Pixies, I'm hoping you'll at least sorta recognize it. It's written by Frank Black, arranged for piano by Maxence Cyrin. Again, forgive the emotionless, tinny quality of my keyboard. I can't wait to play this on a real thing, with a sustain pedal AND weighted keys. Woah.

**(24 June 2014) I've replaced the emotionless version with one played on a more expressive, but still electronic, piano. It's not perfect, but I don't really want it to be.     

    

Yessssssss

Dear Erin,
 
It is my pleasure to offer you a summer internship with the TOEFL Speaking program in English Language Learning. The TOEFL Speaking team looks forward to your participation this summer.



Me, too, TOEFL Speaking team. Me, too. 

Lost in a dark thought

I imagine that Seda's day began fairly similarly to my own. We both dragged ourselves out of bed without enough sleep, frustrated by the alarm clock and 6:30am. We both did our best to pull ourselves together for the day, getting dressed, eating breakfast, drinking coffee, thinking about what all we needed to get done, wondering what the day held. Monday, bleh, we both thought. At about the same time, we both caught separate buses and headed towards the same place - our school. On the bus, we both mentally prepared for the day, and maybe even thought a little bit about our first class - intermediate reading and writing in A1-40. Preparing to be in class, wanting to be good a teacher, wanting to be a good student. Our bus routes wound through the city as we made our way closer and closer to our destination, closer together. Within 15 minutes of one another, we arrived. My bus a little early, entering the school and dropping all the teachers off, her bus a little late and leaving the students on the other side of the street. There. Right there on the other side of the street is where our days diverged completely. While I entered the school and went to my office to get ready for class, Seda tried to cross the street, the busy highway where cars drive much too fast, without looking both ways. 15 minutes later, while I made my way to the classroom, she was loaded into an ambulance with her classmates looking on, horrified. While I started class and took attendance and marked Seda absent, her ambulance rushed her to the hospital, where she would spend her day. Not in school. While class ended, the doctors determined that there was internal bleeding and that she would need a blood transfusion. Several students volunteered to go to the hospital at 11:30 to donate blood. While I and everyone else but Seda went about our days as best as we could, she was unconscious, in a hospital, life expectancy unknown. While I ate lunch as usual, Seda was in pain. While I held a level meeting and fed teachers more meaningless rules and announcements, one of my students was barely alive. While I rode the bus home, comfortable and calm, I wondered how Seda would spend her evening and night. Alive or not alive. In a dark thought or on a white cloud.            

The Dream Job

Today I had my first full two hour lesson with my new batch of intermediate reading and writing students. I had them do some diagnostics and one of them was to write a paragraph about their favorite person, their favorite vacation, or their dream job. Here's one girl's response, which nicely summarizes a common theme that I've noticed here:

"When I was a child, I read a lot of book. My favourite hobbie is read a book and write a something, so my dream job is literature teacher, but my department is tourism management. I want to be literature teacher, but my father didn't want. This department is his dream and I will be boss in hotel. Maybe I won't happy, but my father will be happy and this is very important for me. I like literature a lot of and I will always research writer, I will always read a book, I will always write a something, because this is my dream."

When I was a child, I loved maps and Indiana Jones. My favorite hobby was to find a remote location on a map and read about it and look at pictures of it and dream about going there, so my dream job was to be a geographer, a world traveler, an international teacher, but...my parents wanted me to be happy. Their dream was for me to be successful, and successful to them was defined as being happy, so here I am, in my own dream. All I've ever done is what I've wanted to do, all I've ever pursued is my own dream, keeping in the back of my mind what would make my loved ones proud.

For some of us, our parents raise us with the hopes of making ourselves happy, for others, they raise us with the hopes of making them happy. I don't know which is necessarily better, but it's good to be reminded that I'm so very lucky to be here, to be whatever I want.

 

Student Feedback

"You are so ruler. In my opinion, it's sometimes good, sometimes bad. But, your heart is rich with like."

Reassurance that I'm doing an okay job.

A Snapshot

Youtube is banned here now. Social media is bad media. It makes the country look bad. Indeed. I subbed a class today that partially depended on youtube working, so I did a last minute overhaul of the foreign lesson plan. It went fine until halfway through when the students started throwing tiny wads of paper at eachother and giggling. I ignored it. They just want to be treated like adults, students frequently tell me. Not like children. Right. These students will hopefully be voting in the local elections on Sunday. Every day lately, vans blaring uplifting music shadow me around the city, begging anyone within earshot to vote for the candidate plastered on the side of the van. Sometimes two competing vans will pass each other right in front of me and for 5 glorious seconds no other sound in the world can be heard. The prime minister has been campaigning, too. Apparently there's a video of him yelling about how awful social media is at a rally, but he had lost his voice so he sounds like a high pitched squeaky teenager. I'd like to watch that video, but I can't. Because social media makes the country look bad.      

Turning over a new Eleaf

For one day last week, a student that I hadn't seen in over a month returned to class. She was here for the first two weeks, then just disappeared. For some reason, the main thing I remember about her is the way she held her coffee cup. Very few people here carry travel mugs around, so it stuck out to me. Something different, unique, akin to my own coffee habits. During class, she'd hold it with her left hand curled absentmindedly around it, as if she was so absorbed in whatever she was reading or writing that she forgot the mug was there, yet couldn't let it go. Like it was a part of her. Slowly savoring and draining its contents throughout class. For two weeks, she and her mug were a part of class that I liked. Then she and beloved mug disappeared. When she returned last week, I almost didn't recognize her. Her head was covered with a scarf. Her clothing was traditional and conservative. Her demeanor was obedient and small. She said hello to me and sat down at her old desk and took out her pen and paper. Her coffee mug was gone. I stammered out a hello and before the other students arrived, I carefully told her that she had failed because she had missed so much class. I know, she said. I just want to learn. To improve myself. Her hand twitched emptily on the desk and her smile stretched a little too far. This is not me, I could hear her thinking. This is what I've been told to be. This is what my father asked me to be, what my mother wants me to be, what the government thinks I should be. So just let me be.

I let her be. As the other students arrived, they gave her pitying glances and spoke to her in hushed tones. I tried to give her all of the handouts she had missed and tried, in 10 minutes, to teach her how to write a 5 paragraph essay, and explain how to do the book report so she could catch up. She tried, at first, but by the end of class was doodling pictures on the handouts. Her left hand still empty, still twitching. After class, she gathered up her things, smiled and said see you tomorrow, and never returned.

If only we could all just drink our coffee and have our dreams and never feel wrong about any of it.
     

the brain

is such a bizarre and fragile little thing.

Question

Who existed first: the student or the teacher?

Looking Up

Normally, the cervical curvature of the neck forms over time as a baby gains strength and builds muscle to lift its head. Babies start life without a convex curve in their neck. If, however, a particular baby's neck, while developing in the womb, is formed with two of the vertebrae, the C4 and C5, pushed slightly further inward than normal, making the neck already very slightly convex, the baby would never know. Neither would its parents. The baby would grow and be healthy and normal. Its neck muscles would develop around the tiny deformity, the spine would adjust and adapt over time to minimize any negative impacts the overly convex neck might have. The only signs of abnormality would come in the form of mild neck and head aches. The miracle of the human body overcoming the limitless problems that the formation of life entails. The effects, however, would be seen elsewhere. As the baby grows into a child and an adolescent, she would find it more comfortable than her peers would to sit with her head tilted back, gazing up at the sky. She could spend hours staring up, comfortably tracking stars across the night sky, calmly monitoring the clouds' conglomeration into a storm. She would like this about herself. She'd hear stories about how people don't look up enough, about how people who look up more are dreamers, creative thinkers. These stories would make her happy to be herself, a person who otherwise did not stand out, was not creative. She would never know that her own favorite character trait was caused by a deformity rooted long before she took her first breath. As people are prone to do, she would seek out the tiny glimmers of individuality that would make her feel unique, she would find them, and she would think no further about why she loved to look up at the sky.    

I stood on the edge of the street, looking both ways. A car honked and I took a step back and my heel dug into the curb and my balance wavered, but I knew I was fine. The car passed and in its trail, wafting up out of the pavement, arose an old friend, a familiar smile, helping me cross the street and striding by my side all the way home. What is the brain's purpose, I wonder, in missing a person it hasn't thought of in years.

My new favorite hobby.

What happens when a beloved little monkey goes to a planet?
Mercurious George.

What are the words that a famous 1980's basketball player might use?
VocabuLarry Bird.

What sound does the rain make on one of our gas giant planets?
Jupitter patter.

What happens when one of our former presidents gets a little spicy?
SaffRonald Reagan.

Today

The day began with students silently reading about a dead giraffe while the rain upset the puddles outside and a quiet piano cover of Where is My Mind played in the background. I thought about how peaceful sorrow can be and wondered if my students could feel it, too. Much later I took a taxi home with my friends and sang the lyrics to Fievel Goes West in my head and thought about how it'll feel in the morning to wake up if it's still raining. For all of today, I didn't want to be anywhere else.

February

by their own hand, alone in a room
changing the meaning of February
this is the time of year when friends die

Mostar

I shouldn't have sounded so negative about school starting. I always kind of dislike the first day of school. It feels like it carries too much weight - like if you screw up on that day, the rest of your module is shot. So far, though, my students seem pretty dang nice and hard working. For the first time, I have a group of repeaters, meaning they are taking the intermediate level a second time because they didn't pass the previous module. The repeaters get a bad rap as being all of the unmotivated and disruptive students, so I was a little nervous...picturing spit wads getting caught in my hair and chairs unexpectedly flying across the classroom. But shoot, they seem great so far. No spit wads or flying chairs. Knock on wood. As a person who sucks at learning languages, I'm pretty sure I'd be in the repeaters' class, so I think I can relate. 

Another reason why going back to school was difficult is because of places like Mostar, Bosnia, where I was wandering around just over a week ago. Where I would gladly wander around all day, rain or shine, for the rest of my life. 

Here are some of my favorite Mostar bits...

• A train ride through the lovely Bosnian mountains and about 39 tunnels, give er take 10. None of the pictures of the view out the window turned out, but I kinda liked this one. If you've been with this blog and my flickr page for a while, you might recognize a lil similarity with Romanian trains. I love trains.
  
     
• Stari Most, or Old Bridge. Mostar is famous for this bridge. It was built in the 16th century and worked just fine for 427 years until it was blown up in 1993 during the Croat-Bosniak war. It was rebuilt and reopened in 2004. Everybody we met talked lovingly about this bridge. The way that people in Reno used to talk about the Mapes. There was a video playing in the museum bookshop that showed Stari Most being blown up. The bridge is there, a few people run across it, and a few seconds later there's a red flash and a loud explosion, then a few more explosions, and 427 years of a city's pride is turned to dust and swept away by the river below. I'm glad they rebuilt it.
  
      
• Rain! I normally don't dig walking around all day in rain, but it didn't bother me here with my trusty umbrella and rain appropriate shoes. I'd say it actually added a bit of a dreamy effect to the city.
  
   

• Coffee Shop Lady. I should have taken her picture, but I didn't. I took a picture of her coffee, though. She sat down at our table and showed us how to make proper Bosnian coffee, then gave us two extra cookies. Because we were American and Americans love cookies. She told us she couldn't speak any Turkish, but then taught us the Turkish vocab for everything on the table. She hung out with us and treated us like old friends and I didn't really want to leave, but you have to at some point. 

 

• Stairs. Climbing stairs in pretty much any city is almost never disappointing. Here's what we found at the top of one set of Mostar stairs. Mostairs. 

  

  A house growing some trees.

  
  

    

  
  

  

  See-through old buildings and churches

  
  
  

  

  and some Nine Inch Nails

• And finally, graffiti. 
  
  
  
  

Up next: Dubrovnik, Croatia. Mostar and Dubrovnik were my favorite parts of the trip and I wish we could have spent more time in both cities. But that's how I feel about most places.  

There and Back Again

I'm coming down off of two weeks of vacation and I wish I felt just a glimmer of excitement for class tomorrow. But I don't. I am, however, excited for the provided lunch and all of the salad options and the coffee machine on the second floor. Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me, sometimes I think I'm pretty okay.

During vacation, I went on a week long trip that went like this:
Home (bus, taxi) Antalya Airport (plane, plane, taxi) Sarajevo Bosnia (taxi, train, car) Mostar Bosnia (taxi, bus, taxi) Dubrovnik Croatia (long walk, shuttle, shuttle, shuttle, plane, plane, plane, taxi (to be explained)) Pristina Kosovo (taxi, plane, plane) Antalya (taxi) home.

Here are the bits of vacation that I remember the most and don't want to forget. It was a good vacation, despite the 20-odd forms of transportation required to make it happen.

In Sarajevo...

• Roses. A lot of bombs went off in Sarajevo not that long ago for reasons that, even after visiting and reading about, I still don't understand. Many went off on sidewalks. In these places, they have filled in the missing chunks with red cement and now call them Sarajevo roses. Here's one in front of a church in the main part of town:

• Graveyards and other frequent reminders of death and war. You don't have to walk very far to find a massive graveyard or a tribute to a group of victims from the war. I didn't need to visit these places - Sarajevo, Mostar, and Kosovo - to realize that I hadn't lived through much in terms of suffering, but visiting and seeing these things does something humbling to your brain. And knowing that every single person around you over the age of 20, every kind person who calmly gives you directions in broken English, every waiter who smiles as they take your order, every shopkeeper who meekly watches you look at their dusty items on the shelf, every one of them once feared for their life and for the lives of their loved ones. Every one of them saw their city torn to bits and undoubtedly lost friends and family members. Every one of them survived something awful, and now there you sit, waiting for them to fill your glass with water and bring you some bread as you plan out your next day of sightseeing. Oof.   

• Residence Rooms Hostel. This was my favorite hostel of the trip...center of town, interesting and kind owner, old building, lots of floors and rooms to wander around in. I found myself drawn to the living room, where there was an incredibly out of tune grand piano, at least 5 couches, Christmas lights that twinkled nonstop, and old books. I didn't think to take any pictures inside the hostel, but here's a little GIF animation thingy from the stair well. It's the first time I've made such a thing. Please enjoy:

• And, lastly, intriguing and weird statues:

Next up, the delightful city of Mostar. To be continued soon.

Finally

I found a song. It's been a while, and this one is very short and I don't think it's quite finished yet. But I think I like it so far. I found a way to record the keyboard, too, instead of the blinds, so that's weird and fun. And pretend the sound is that of a grand piano in Carnegie Hall, not that of a cheap, emotionless mock piano.

These are not my cookies.

I don't get many emails from students, but I got one yesterday. From a quiet student who seemed to want to blend into the wall during class. So much so that I barely knew her, though she did very well in class. In the email, she asked for the recipe for the cookies I had shared with my students on the last day of class. I sent her a link to the recipe ( http://bakeoff-flunkie.blogspot.com/2010/07/kaitlyns-outrageous-oatmeal-chocolate.html if you're feeling bakey) and a follow up email explaining how I chopped up dark chocolate to make chocolate chips. I also bid her good luck and figured I'd never hear from her again. This morning, I got a second email from her with the above picture attached to the below message:

"Good morning miss Erin :) I did cookie yesterday night they turn out well but absolutely yours is more delicious than mine. Thanks for your help have a good time :)"

Being me, I can't think of a better email to end this semester on. Here's to the quiet quirky wonderful kids, to spreading the love of cookies, and to two weeks of vacation. G'night.

Dear Warrior,

I sat in your tomb yesterday. In the sacred space encrusted with a spear-pierced shield where your broken body was placed. I sat there, heard my laugh echo, had my picture taken there, ran my hand through the moss growing in the corner, sniffed the moldy lining, in the tiny concrete box that your family, your friends, your enemies, all thought belonged solely to you. A space where you could rest, in peace, forever. Where your loved ones could kneel and drop tears and flowers onto the rocks, where they felt you were safe from further harm, from further desecration. You are no longer there, though. Your organs have long ago dissolved, your hair has been woven into ancient bird nests, and your bones have been scattered across the land, by the hands of thieves and the teeth of dogs. Not a trace of you remains there, where I sat yesterday, feeling alive and whole and happy. And now I wonder whether I should apologize or say thank you.    

howl

it's a pity the moon can't howl back. just to let us know that she's listening. snout to the stars, ears sharpened points, eyes zipped shut, fur on end, paws firmly planted, tail slowly pushing pine needles through the dust. and howling till there's nothing left to howl.