Call to prayer

Some day, I'll miss the call to prayer. A sound that seamlessly fills the air. A sound that I rarely notice begin or end. It's more of a sudden sense, a sudden realization. People are being called to prayer. Five times a day. Some day, I'll be going about a different life in a different country and I'll hear a song start up from a car or a hum from a passerby and my mind for some reason will hear the call. That's when I'll miss it. That's when my mind will see the palm trees, the way they shine back at the sun and drift through the breeze. And the mountains and how they fall into the sea, each natural space in between filled with orange trees or pomegranate trees or olive trees or ancient cities. And the smiles on my friends' faces, the way each of them talks, the way each of them walks. The stray cats, the stray dogs, their little homes on the streets. Spring and her thick coat of flowers, the air filled with bees, the air filled with prayers.        

Two Puppies

On my walk tonight, I thought about how if I move back to the US this summer, I'll get a dog. A puppy. I'll rescue it from some kennel or puppy pound or something. It'll be small and calm. A little guy who could go on a plane with me, if need be, under the seat in front of me. Never in cargo. We'll go for long adventure walks around my new city and establish a good routine and talk to each other in the evenings. Then, of course, I thought about how sad it'll be when my new puppy eventually dies. It'll be torture. My eyes welled up a little at the thought. And if that puppy lives to be 15, I'll be 50 when it dies. I'll be sad and won't be able to have another puppy around for a while, but eventually I'll probably get another puppy. And if that puppy also lives to be 15, I'll be about 70 when it dies. And then I probably shouldn't get any more puppies because who will take care of them when I die? I've really only got two more puppy lives in me. That's not very many.  

Wish me luck.

My day was long and plain. Nothing special. Until the end. At a stoplight, I saw an old man get punched in the face and knocked to the ground. He had gotten out of his car to argue with a pedestrian who he nearly hit with his speeding car. As he was arguing, a stranger who saw what had happened sprang from his car, ran across the street, leaped into the air, punched the old man in the face hard enough to knock him to the ground, kicked the pedestrian in the shins, and then darted back to his car in perfect time for the light to turn green. And all within 30 seconds. Then our car continued on, end of story unknown. All over the world, nameless, meaningless hostilities are proudly, gracefully layered on top of other nameless, meaningless hostilities. When I got home, my nose started to bleed for the first time in maybe 15 years. It didn't last long. Hopefully the old man's didn't, either. But my head still hurts a little bit. Then I had an interview to become an ELF next year. I hope it works out and I can go somewhere soft and peaceful. Somewhere where I can make meaning out of the events around me. Somewhere that probably doesn't exist.

   

All over the world

I've been thinking about next year a lot. About what to do. And whenever I do, a subtle throbbing swells up in my chest. It makes it just a touch harder to breath. Because no matter what I choose to do next year, it's going to hurt some. The worst part about living the way that I do is leaving. It's always there, hanging over my head, occupying some small corner of my mind. Some day, I'll have to leave this place and these people. And that thought hurts, especially knowing me and how bad I am at staying in touch. Especially knowing how easy it is, over time, for everyone to move on and slowly forget who we were while we were there, in a place, together. The comfort of good memories fade until you're eventually nearly strangers again. I think that's the saddest part. Being so closely connected to a tiny, unexpected part of the world for a while, making a life there with friends and hobbies and knowing the best places to walk and eat, feeling like you belong, at least a little bit, there. And then it's time to go, time to move on, and once you leave, the magic of you living in that place will never exist again. At least it hasn't for me. And it's sad to know that that time for Turkey is approaching.

Even if I were to decide to stay in Antalya for a fourth year, it would still hurt some, as it does every year that I choose not to move home. One of the hardest parts of leaving Reno 8 years ago was leaving my then 4 and 5 year old brothers. I knew I'd miss a lot of their childhood, but I had no idea just how much I'd miss. I figured I'd be gone for 2 years, then I'd roll right back into their lives like nothing happened. But it's 8 years later and for the first time today, TJ asked me over skype "So what have you been up to?" Prior to tonight, he had never asked me a question, he just made faces at himself on skype while minimally answering all my stupid questions, like any little kid would do. But tonight he asked me a question and it led to a conversation and if we're having conversations that means he's not really a little kid anymore. Then he went and picked up his ukulele and strummed out Over the Rainbow for me, and I've missed too much. We're not practically strangers, but I've missed too much.

And my mom moved to Las Vegas just this weekend and Reno will never quite feel like home again and I wasn't there to help her or even to pack up my own stuff that she's been keeping for me for the past eight years. Big things are happening in the lives of everyone I know and love and I'm never there to be a part of it. I'm just gradually becoming more and more of a stranger to more and more people all over the world.

And this is turning in to a weird, depressing, disjointed novel so I'm gonna go to bed.           

The Graveyard.

There's a large graveyard in the center of Antalya, very close to where the new school is. I often go there over my lunch break. It's the quietest, calmest place within a mile or two. All of the graves face the same direction, towards Mecca. Some of them are fairly new. Many of them are quite old. A few of them are very small, and most of them are above ground. I go there and watch the trees sway and listen to the call to prayer and leave bread crumbs for the birds and pet the stray cats and walk among the stones and think about their names and dates. It doesn't bother me as much as it does some of my work friends. The place is almost deserted. I walk and I breathe and I imagine the stones and the sidewalks and the layers of earth slowly crumbling away, until all that remains are the bones and me. My future and their past. All in one place, all hopefully at peace. At least for a few minutes.

Blink

I had a dream that every time I blinked, a day would whirl by, so that I would flash forward to a random moment the next day. Washing dishes at the kitchen sink with Ira Flatow introducing his show in the background - blink - walking carefully up the stairs at work with my full coffee cup in my hand the next day - blink - laughing about puns with my team mates in our tiny office the next day - blink - opening the door to the gym and holding it for the stream of sweaty people leaving the next day - blink. All of these days went by in less than a minute. By the time I woke up, I was 70. Every baby I had met had become a parent. Every animal I had known had died. Every war I had heard of had been won. Or lost. Or ceased to be fought. And I had been there for mere seconds of it. A ghost flashing through picture frames, floating in space, fading into backgrounds.  

A Made Up Memory

Somehow I've reached a point where it's hard to believe that I used to be a little kid. A baby. I used to scream and cry in public and people didn't mind, they accepted it. I used to stare at things for forever and eat dirt and crawl around on the ground and everyone thought it was cute. I used to know nothing and added only goofy sounds to conversations and people thought it was normal. My mom used to cradle me in her arms and feed me and sing to me. My dad used to hold my hand and help me open Christmas presents and put the toys together. My sister used to teach me games and build forts with me and protect me from the monsters. They all protected me. I used to have people who kept me alive, and I don't really remember any of it.

None of the memories are bright and crisp enough to seem real, though I feel like they happened. Even when I see pictures of myself as a little kid, the smiling or crying or curious little face looks like a stranger, a friend's baby, somebody else being held by my young mother. Not me. But I know that it is me. That it was me. Pictures don't lie. That moment really happened, whether I can remember it or not. Pictures do strange things to the mind. Or does everyone feel this way and I'm just now getting weirded out by it?

In fact, some of the memories that stick out the most from when I was little are the silly little scenarios I day-dreamed up, the ones that never actually happened. Like going for a walk and imagining I was a giant, stomping through forests and skipping over mountains. Or imagining long, emotional conversations with my cat. I remember those memories, those day dream conversations, quite clearly. But where have the real memories gone? They must be there somewhere. Does my brain value make-believe more than reality, and has therefore clung to the moments it once wished would happen, while ignoring the ones that did?

And does this mean that in another 30 odd years, when I'm wrinkly and gray and slowing down even more, wanting to retire and rest, the memories I'll recall of these days will be mostly the meaningless, made up conversations I have in my head, and the random dreams I envision for myself all the time? Will the memories not include the real world swirling about outside, the real people moving and breathing around me, the real stories unfolding, of life and death and love and hate? Will it all be lost on me? It's sad to think that I'll be living in a world of memories that never happened, unable to recall the actual life that I led, or the real conversations that I had, or the wonderful people that I loved, and that perhaps loved me, too. The real people that I loved, but never quite understood. Never quite got to know... because it's difficult and a little bit terrifying to try and comprehend a life story your brain didn't invent on its own.