New Blog Site

So... I'm moving... yes, I can't even commit to a blog site... I know - I may have serious problems, but what can I say - it's a better site ;)

So, here it is: http://peregrineverbiage.wordpress.com/

Take care and who knows, you may see me pop up here every now and again... one never knows.

1 August 2011

Counting down the days, hours, minutes 'till I am finished with this mind-numbing NYC summer camp adventure. No words could possibly adequately sum up the last four weeks.... but currently I am actually hiding from the wining, spoiled, nasty little teenagers that seek me out, to complain (yet again) about everything under the sun – from toilet paper, to scheduling, to having to walk more than two blocks, to the food, the lack of tennis courts, Hilton hotel service or a dinner hour they find acceptable, to wondering why I can't get their cell phone back – that they think they may have left on Broadway... or perhaps in the taxi... or could just be somewhere on campus... oh, and this happened four days ago... really? “Honey, why don't you try Ebay?” …. What? You don't find the humor in that? Such a shame... we all do.

Everywhere I turn I get bombarded by ridiculous requests and complaints. They steal toilet paper, have sex in showers, demand to go to 5th avenue and shop EVERY DAY, constantly defy curfew, stay at us indignantly, ditch class, saunter in an hour and a half late (thank god I'm not the one teaching them), come to me with bullshit excuses as to why they missed their classes – lie through teenage teeth I see right through – and so I smile and refuse them what they want most in this wold... the next days Abercrombie Fitch shopping extravaganza. They hate to sightsee, exude any energy whatsoever that doesn't involve shopping or breaking lights in the hallway from kicking the ball against the walls as hard as they can... They stare blankly at you when you ask them to do anything, they write in the elevator with sharpie markers they have stolen from the office, they get lost in the city - in defiance of staying in a group, they push buttons and boundaries and yes... I am aware this is the world's revenge for being such a god AWFUL teenager myself. I AM SORRY!

Not all of them are so bad... or WERE so bad. First few weeks we had some truly enthusiastic kids; creative, energetic, excited to learn and not too bad to deal with except for the random mishap involving one or two police officers, and an incident with two girls, a boy and one blanket on the football field at 2am. Besides that, groups had group leaders that accompanied them and were pretty good at keeping them under control. There were a few that I adored – little Russian bad-asses and suave Italian teenage heart breakers. We played, laughed, had dance parties on buses and collectively complained about the contrasting hot and cold... Now, we are group leaderless, understaffed, and swarming with unruly, incredibly DULL, Germans. Tomorrow I tell them that we are moving campus, with one week to go – yes, the organization from the Scotland is an entirely other rant... all I have to say is; Who signs a contract that ends on the 6th when you already have over 40 kids still in NYC until the 13th? Seriously? And that's really just the tip of the iceberg, and that baby goes deep!

I even think my darling activity manager finally had it this evening – and he has been mister nice guy since the very beginning – playing a game of cop, bad cop... a roll I am so NOT enjoying partaking in, but must say, I play a really good bitch. (Shocking, I know). I go through various emotions: from being beyond frustrated, to throwing my hands in the air in desperation, to indifference, to embracing my fate and trying to roll with the punches the best I can and just thank god I don't have to do this for much longer. Although I must say, four weeks feels a bit like four months. I know in retrospect, I will most likely look back on this summer and laugh – and the comedy in that is outrageous! I know I should be out there right now, making sure nobody is burning holes in the carpet or stealing laundry from the dryer... but really... I just CAN'T do it! I don't think any of us can – as I'm pretty sure we're all camped out in our respected rooms, hiding from the monsters that we must put up with all day long. Hahaha! Oh well. I find comfort in the third storm today, rolling in in the distance, to my sporadic outings into the city when I get to people watch in Harlem, eat at amazing vegan restaurants in the Village, stroll through Central Park, go to Broadway plays, free concerts, and yes... shop in all the five boroughs of NYC. Hmmm... what is that I hear? Balls being violently banged against walls in the hallway? No... it's quiet... sweet Jesus, that's the most frightening of all – for as my mother always said – when there are quiet teenagers, there are troublesome teenagers... was that my mother? Or just something I remember from being a sneaky, conspiring trouble maker myself? Doesn't matter... I know someone's up to no good. Hmmm, well, as long as everybody makes it with all their limbs in tacked, that's really all one can hope for that this point. Don't know about anybody else, but it's time for this girl to tuck herself in and listen to the sweet sound of thunder and semi horns as they drive over the bridge above my head, sending me to happy highway sleepy land. :-)

A brief momentary lapse

Sitting on my boyfriend's patio – my current temporary home – I contemplate the idea of mentally preparing myself for a six month working stint in New York City... Staten Island to be exact. Leaving in five days, my life is scattered about me in piles of textiles and cosmetics. Having purchased a round trip ticket from Istanbul to New York, I suppose I intend to return... but we shall see my fine young friend, we shall see. Really no time to think about that at the moment however – must concentrate on the next task at hand... successfully running a Summer English program on Staten Island of all places. The UK office is leaving a bunch of crazy hellions in charge of the entire US operation – hahahaha – a fact I seem to find more and more comical each time it pops to mind. The role-call consists of: Two of my ex flat mates – the lovely Skye (whom got me out to this crazy country in the first place), and the Polish Chicagoan who ever-so-kindly let me share his loft last summer on my brief return to Krakow from Oman. In Boston we have the Adams – two vastly contrasting expats, both residing in Krakow as well, whom have some how managed to remain staunch allies and friends for many years, as well as running this program in years past. Lastly we have a fellow Coloradan expat whom recently split with his Warsawian girl friend of five years. So, all in all – a charming entourage of 'recovering' derelicts left in charge of the US... in hopes we do not burn down our respected east coast cities.

Having given very short notice to an unhappy company - whom could not even guarantee me enough hours during the summer to survive on, mind you – I finish up work on Tuesday, will hopefully get paid and leave my future return of my employment there at, 'questionable'. Not a bad gig really, yet my indifference gets the best of me and I find having to think about two months down the line, uninteresting. So I pack my bags – after a brief mental break in which consisted of throwing everything I own out onto my boyfriend's living room floor – lied amongst the scarfs, torn jeans and various knick knacks – took a brief nap before I meticulously began folding, discarding the pieces which would not be making the long journey to New York with me.

I will have surgery tomorrow – nothing major – just a quick, let's-get-things-taken-care-of-and-in-line- before-I-leave kinda thing. Should be a blast and am looking forward to adding to the insanity of pre-departure mayhem.

In the meantime, all I want is to swim. Jagged rocks aside, the swimming season has treated me quite well. Antalya has three different types of swimming holes to choose from: two beaches, on either side of the city – one with a pebble beach (which I prefer), the other with a sand beach (which normally I would hole-heartedly embrace, but the combination of salt and fine sand is a sticky, dirty mess). The last option, and by far my favorite, are the cliffs. In walking distance from my house, they are hidden from the eyes of the tourists and you will mostly find a few fisherman and some teenage boys showing off for one another as they dive (or flop) into the water. Walking down steps and ladders to get to the sea, this cove is pocketed nicely out of reach from wandering beach searchers and the cold spring waters that rush up out of the bottom of the sea make for the most refreshing afternoon swim on a wretchedly hot and humid day. Not as calm, quiet and clean as the pool clear waters of Adrasan – but it does the job.

So for the next few days, I will swim, pack and continue to sort my brain out before I depart for the Big Apple – the city of possibility, wonder, chaos and amazement.

A tired attempt at rhyme

I

I stand shaky in the middle of a forest of towering oak
but their brood leaves can't seem to protect me as stand naked in the burning sun
They reach down their branches to offer shelter but instead of submitting to protection - I run

I often want to turn around - but into the deep blue sea I jump instead
floating in the open water, nothing and everything can touch me - simtaneously- I am free, yet
completely immersed and all-trusting

I sometimes dream of returning to the direction from once I came - to its offerings of peace and
protection
but like a moth, I am drawn into the direction of the setting sun - and as it sinks, I chase it
as it shines, illuminating the hills that are stacked with houses in the distance
I'm not sure what I'd find there - if I were to return
so I decide not to chance it and stay forward bound - until I reach my way around



Snippets of imperfection

What would you do if I were honest - showed you my soul and welcomed you home?

They say your home is where your heart is - but my heart is shattered - it's pieces rest scattered,
all tattered and sown -
into loose fabric and dry soil which are fragments of someone else's ideas - of a perfection that is not my own

I don't know what to call you - where to put you, or how to behave
so I quietly shut the door in front of me, instead of facing these demons that reluctantly I've raised

I've tried to be rock solid , but I chip too easily at the core
don't juge me too harshly please - as I'm a broken doll with stained lips and a peculiar demeanor
and I find it difficult to penetrate the exterior - so I move quickly - so as not to bore

They say these beginnings are like magic, but they also say that magic fades
and too quickly I find myself jaded
not wanting to be held , by tired arms and a disapproving grace - I slide, I wax sorrowful distress - as I
rest my head on an unfamiliar pillow, in a bed that has never been made

judgmental bantering

Having spent much of the afternoon 'working' in a café, I have had a great deal of time to people watch - or shall I say; 'observe/silently criticize'.... yes, I think that is a more accurate description. Anyway, as I slowly sip my third cup of coffee and continue procrastinating, I am overwhelmed with a despicable sense of judgment. I am currently feeling a bit surrounded. Rail thin women donning repetitively thick layers of makeup and dressed to fashion-magazine-perfection are politely giggling all around me. I watch one pass by my table; her grande paper coffee cup appearing comically too heavy for her waif little arms to carry, her bouncing curls lightly springing up and down against her back as she walks out of the café on her twiggy little legs. I can't help but gawk at her – I am both intrigued and disgusted by her very existence. Intrigued by what she must do to become so freakishly thin and by how long it must take her to get ready in the morning, and in turn, disgusted by the hypotheses I have come up with about why she, and the rest of her kind are the way they are. In my current judgmental state, I assume the worst. The only reasonable explanation I have come up with for these perplexing creatures is that they must be mindless, soul-less drones, programmed by some estranged male fantasy gone haywire and let to run amok throughout practically all of the world's societies... They couldn't possibly be reflective, soul-searching, questioning individuals of any sort – but must have somehow seriously taken to heart everything they read and saw in the women's magazines they snuck past or were given by their mothers as teenagers. What has emerged out of the combination of these seemingly unobtainable representations of the ideal woman and the traditional roles placed upon many of the women of the world, feels, or at least looks a bit sub-human. Skinny, flawless perfection is what they know to be desirable, along with soft opinions and a gentle grip. Beauty will draw men, which will lead to marriage, which will ensure happiness and a worry-free existence... that is until the beauty fades and they are left with nothing but sagging breasts and a man who has found a younger version of their former selves. Are my assumptions too judgmental and cynical? Perhaps. But my post-feminist sense of individual elitism is getting the best of me today.

As I comfortably sit here with my messy bedhead, minimalist makeup and liberally individualistic perspectives, I go back and forth from feeling superior to these image-oriented women, to dabbling with disturbing feelings of feminine inadequacy. I tell myself I am 'superior' as I do not believe I have to spend hours primping in front of the mirror each morning before I allow myself to leave the house, I get to eat pastries and cheese and drink beer, swear like a sailor and spit, scratch and grunt with the boys (if I so desire). I also struggle with these embarrassing feelings of inadequacy however, as I question everything I believe to 'know' about what men want and find myself trapped in a web of hypocrisy all at the same time. Here I am, judging these women for their 'falseness' and skin deep desirability, caught up in the idea that it's all about the men, when really, I don't care WHAT these women dress like, think about or the rationale behind any of it. If a bottle of eyeliner a day and walking with six inch heals on cobblestones is what makes them honestly happy, then more power to them. Wearing my tingly Venom lip gloss and riding my bike in my red, scuffed wedges makes me joyously happy... so whatever works. Women let themselves get so caught up in judging one another, and for what? Like cocks or pitbulls shoved in a ring and cajoled to duke it out as the spectators look on, we play into it – leaving the ring either triumphantly or broken and torn apart with our head held in shame. We have done a very good job at allowing ourselves to be manipulated by the game and adapting our roles as we socially 'progress', pairing one another off against each other as we continuously circle, inevitably leading ourselves nowhere.

I suppose we cringe at the presence of these walking fashion magazine inserts because they seem to make us question our own desirability and feminine allure, despite knowing all-too-well that this is absolute nonsense. Are these women any happier or worse off then us 'normal' women? Probably not. However, we like to fantasize that they lead miserably empty lives as they painfully attempt to prance gracefully in and out of admirer's gazes, but they're probably not as alien as we might think. When it comes down to it, we most likely all have relatively the same fears and insecurities, just different ways of projecting and/or hiding them. One thing I do know, is that I wouldn't trade places...well, maybe for a night, but any more than that, I fear would leave me feeling more than just surrounded, but trapped and incredibly restricted. In the mean time, I suppose we will just have to go on rolling our eyes at their seemingly ridiculous Barbie realities and judging, rightly or wrongly, we can't help but to judge.

The literal and figurative things I see...

A white coffee cup with a green label that always reminds me of the early 1990's.
sesame seeds from my glutinously consumed tahini pastry - I wipe them away as soon I notice them so as not to look like too much of a pig... especially when surrounded by the posh, Turkish nouveau riche.
An ashtray overflowing with smashed butts and ash from this table's previous occupant.
A computer screen that reflects more of 'me' than the many articles, conversations I am having and of course the sentences I am trying to construct. I realize I have forgotten earrings this morning - also that I like the wavy-ness of my hair and the neckline of my t-shirt. I notice that I look older than the photos I had been looking at earlier in the day - photos from 2006; which seem like yesterday but was apparently five years ago... so I suppose it makes sense that I have aged... but I'm not too sure how I feel about this at the moment. I put my sunglasses down from the top of my head so I stop looking at my reflection in the computer screen - but then I can also no longer see what I am doing, so they get returned to their resting place and I try to ignore the strange woman staring down at her keyboard.
Two men in their early 30's are sitting under an umbrella, engaged in a govial conversation which occasionally erupts in laughter as one shares something from his iphone: an email, an article, an sms... I can't make out the finer details - but I enjoy watching them smile and carry on so lightheartedly. The one being read to smokes frantically, as if he must be finished with his cigarette before the story comes to an end. I relate to the man reading and realize I currently have no one to obnoxiously share all of my interesting article finds with. I suppose I could call up my previous victim and veraciously read him as much as I could before my phone credit ran out... but then I see I don't actually HAVE any phone credit, so I must leave that thought for now.
A group of women have just sat down in the sun, coffees and cakes purchased. They are dressed to true Sunday-morning-Turkish-perfection... that is to say - immaculately. No hair flies out of place, red lipstick meticulously painted on lips that look a bit collegian enhanced... and as I look around me, I realize most of these women look a bit 'enhanced'.
Multiple conversations, iced-coffee, cigarette smoke and cologne swirl around this sunny patio. Shiny designer sunglasses, large expensive watches and handbags capture my attention as a jet flies past - dangerously close.
The jet takes my attention further afield and I think of how beautiful it must be to fly into Antalya. My late night flight robbed me of that experience, but it's pretty amazing in my mind.
I fixate on the sea as it glimmers in the distance and the mountains emerge magnificently from the blue water. I wonder what I am doing sitting in a cafe when I really should be swimming in those waters... I wonder if six weeks of healing is long enough for my broken foot to be ready to brave the rocks of the Mediterranean shores... a tinge of pain stirs in my foot - as if to say, "give it time".
I usually ignore 'sage advice' - and so it is with this that I must close up my laptop for the day and follow my desire to be closer to the water - no, to be in the water - floating undisturbed and victorious along with the fishes.

Remembering: living 18 years with you and 10 without

28 today and the spring ground is saturated again
I sink deep into furrows of earth – careful to avoid the worms and snails that slither about, oblivious of my presence
My mind drifts to you as I walk down seashore and slippery pavement, past stray screaming kittens, obnoxious street-food vendors and the occasional 'misplaced' chocolate bar wrapper
Like most days – you are everywhere and nowhere, all at once

As I walk, I imagine what you would now look like
I seek out features similar to your own in the people I walk past
I configure the older you through memories of a teenage boy once known – I mix them with images of maturity and strength
I fill you out, give you scraggly sideburns, and perhaps a wee bit of orange stubble that makes you look your age – which without, leaves people assuming your are much younger than your wise 28 years
I put you in tighter clothes than you once wore – loose fitting trousers, a slightly snug, artsy black t-shirt and stylishly scuffed puma sneakers
I give you short 'messy' hair and a confident saunter
Your eyes are the same – kind and well-intended. The only difference being they have ever-so-noticeable lines toward the sides, matching the worry lines on your forehead, which have already been there for some years now

As I construct you, I drift off into memories unrealized
I giggle as I remember conversations had over cocktails in your favorite bar in Kyoto – the one you always talked about as we chatted on Skype into the wee hours of the night and were finally able to take me to when I visited you for that lovely two weeks in May
We talked about the girl you were in love with, you sought out my advice – which happily, I gave, and you took it, or left it as you saw fit
I remember the time we stayed up till morning one year, home for Christmas – we laughed until we cried, as we reflected on the mistakes and misgivings of our past – our childhood which seemed so far away - but when home, in the house of our youth, always felt like only yesterday

Joyously lost in memory creation, I loose footing and stumble back into the reality I am today, reluctant to inhabit
the rain pounds heavy and I seem to have missed my turn-off on my windy road home
I backtrack and leave you, for now
Perhaps tonight you'll visit me in dreams – perhaps this time you'll look more like how I think you should look, instead of always appearing as the little boy of a life once lived, so long ago

28

The memory of you is entangled deep within my DNA
And even though I no longer am able to feel your presence – your very existence burns blue – firery and dreamlike
For years I have searched for you in vain – under rocks and around every corner I have sought refuge from the emptiness I have been left with
I have found pieces of short orange hair, dust and pebbles, but not much more
Sometimes I still think I see you walking down the street – always faster than I seem to be able to go.
I used to try and catch up... but now I keep my pace, letting the mirage of you continue, unhindered or disturbed.
I know I will never again find you here – so have stopped looking

In the beginning, minutes without you used to pass like days, as time seemed to slow to a painfully unavoidable halt - where every moment burned like fire and cut like razor wire
But the curse of time is also kind, and as it passes, the void I am left with doesn't always seem so black
For years I have clung to this darkness – I've named it, and like a pet I've dragged it around – fed it and let it sleep in my bed
I kept it close, in hopes it would keep me closer to you
and I held my head high, as I chastised the ones who let themselves live in the darkness – proud of the fact that I merely kept mine as a pet – as if this was better, healthier and wise
But just like you, even the best of pets must die
and so I try to bury my darkness, instead of letting it define my existence

Out of the darkness I want to emerge radiant – embracing your memory and your short, but marvelous life - as you are implanted, embedded, engraved eternally in my soul
through thoughts, memories and laughter, you live on within me and all the lives you've touched
So I have let you go, so that I can live

A dark soul at the end of the tunnel of light

I am trying to write an article of substance for a travel website, yet I keep getting sidetracked by the unbearable insincerity I fear it reeks of. Ugh... so I take a break to vent my frustrations and express my continual amusement at this love, hate affair I am currently having with life.

I woke up this morning, computer still on and open, sun pounding through my thin glass window panes and realized; I had slept for 13 hours! 13 hours?! What happened? I hadn't been drinking, hadn't had any sort of strenuous day to speak of... just apparently slept for 13 hours. I literally crawled out of bed, threw on some clothes, grabbed my computer and headed for the door. Groggy from the 13 hours of sleep, I was desperate for coffee.. and none of this 3 in 1 nescafe shit I had spewed around my house, but a proper cup of coffee. So, cheesy, flaky pastry purchased, morning chat with my favorite barrista completed and now comfortably sitting in the sunshine, I am uninspired and annoyed, yet caffeinated, so life's not too bad. Trying to write, I find myself preoccupied by the comings and goings of anorexic, BMW driving Turkish women, poorly dressed German tourists and the creepy bӧrek vendor who keeps staring at me and smiling in that not-so-charming kinda way. My body still aches, in unexplainable ways, but too frustrated to even contemplate popping another antibiotic into my mouth I dabble with detox... ah yes, a grand idea indeed, as I stare at my nearly empty cup of coffee... knowing all too well I will soon be purchasing another. Perhaps tomorrow I will start? Or return to the doctor...

Anyway, enough about that already. The first afternoon call to prayer has begun which means this day is steadily progressing while I have achieved absolutely nothing of substance and only have a few more hours until I have to peddle myself off to 'work'. Living in the Mediterranean however always feels like I'm on holiday... especially when it's 18C in February... like why should I be working? Shouldn't I be swimming? Or having a cocktail by the harbor, people watching and 'not smoking' cigarettes? Really difficult to take anything seriously here, when you feel as if you are on perpetual holiday. Ah, my life is absurd. I can't even remember the last time I had to get up before 9am and spend the day 'at work'. I have been traipsing across cities for so long, working a few hours here, a few hours there... working from cafes, or simply not working at all. Some may say my work ethic has gone to shit, and honestly, I suppose I'd have to agree. I passively seek out more work; flirting with the idea of taking a proper teaching job up in Istanbul, or actually getting hired at one of the many NGOs I have sent inquiries off to around the globe... writing more, procrastinating less, saving money and perhaps even contemplating a 'real' relationship... I flinch and sigh - go do yoga girl, find some grounding and carry on with your day. Sometimes trying to live in the present as opposed to projecting into the future or revealing in the past can be a very difficult job indeed... there has got to be a way to get paid for this kind of commitment, seriously.

The glory of denial

I'm walking home from work the other day and this all-too-familiar pain is radiating down my legs, my right leg this time, down to my toes. I breathe into it and keep on walking... convinced if I ignore it, the pain will eventually go away. But ignoring it I can no longer do. I have actually tried to get this problem sorted in two different countries so far: the good ol' USofA and Poland. Pelvic inflammation – ah yes, nothing like the throbbing, radiating pain of an inflamed uterus, ovaries and cervix to add to the adventure of life. Antibiotics are apparently our friend, but sometimes they aren't always strong enough... sometimes we need Ukrainian-vodka strength antibiotics to really kick a problem in the ass.
Nevertheless, I enjoy learning these lessons the hard way and as I am keeled over in unbearable pain, I realize, it's time for that dreaded doctor visit I have been putting off since the last day of my Polish antibiotics, when the pain began to creep, un-welcomed back into my life. So I made a few inquisitions into English speaking gynos... called, made some sort of loose appointment – and with a vague idea of where I was headed, I took off early Thursday morning on my bicycle (well actually my flatmate's as mine was in the shop – long story). Surprisingly, it took me 10 minutes to reach the clinic I was told was the correct place to go. Wow, with 20 minutes to kill, impressive. With the name of my doctor clasped in my nervous hands, I walk into the clinic, only to enter into strikingly confusing mayhem. There are old, traditional, headscarf cladden Turks everywhere; waiting in hallways, crowded outside doors - my panic receptors spike and I have a strong urge to flee. Fuck the pain that is radiating throughout my body, I want outta here!
I am being watched curiously by the waiting patients, I can see their wonderment at my presence in this little clinic. I have no idea where to go, so with my minimal Turkish I approach a random desk and point to the name of the doctor that is written in my planner. Happily, a look of understanding appears on the young woman's face and she manages to communicate to me that my doctor is working at the hospital today. A wave of comfort flows through me at the word 'hospital' and I ask where 'said' hospital may be. She hands me a pamphlet with an address and points across the street, and I think she says something about taking a green bus.

I scurry across the street and wait... no green bus. I ask every bus driver that comes by; “bu gidimiyorsun?”, and point to the address on the pamphlet. “Yok” is all I understand of the responses. REALLY? Nobody goes there? “For Christ's Sake!” I frustratingly let blurt out of my pomegranate lip-balmed lips. Bike it is then... I WILL see a doctor today, if it is the last thing I do.

Having received a fully functioning 3G Kindle for Christmas from my father, I google the address and examine the streets that will hopefully lead me to the allusive address. Where AM I? Is this map to scale? Gazi Boulevard seems to be my destination point – so I jump back on the bike and peddle North? Or West? Who knows... But it doesn't really matter, as I eventually found my way – and like a beckon of radiant heavenly bliss, there it stood.... the 'hospital' (clinic) I had been searching for. To my happy amazement, as soon as I walked in, a lovely young woman approached me and asked me how she could help me. I smiled brightly and told her the name of the doctor I had come to see. Ah, English she speaketh. :-) She led me to the office and a shocking hue of died burgundy, pink hair greeted me and invited me in. I had a seat and sweaty from the bike ride, guzzled down a bottle of water I had picked up along the way and began my lengthy explanation of why I was sitting in her office. She listened with brief interruptions and I prayed she understood what I was talking about... she had me go into the next room – I looked around the small, stained examination room, the chair fully equipped with stirrups and a bowl of what looked like iodine or the wax used at the salon for all that unwanted, pesky hair... the gooey liquid had dripped down and left splashes on the floor, next to a bucket of used 'tongs', waiting to be disinfected. Ok, I calming reassured myself as she demanded I take off my pants... remember, you are used to America's unnecessary obsession for all things 'sterile'... I am sure this is perfectly sanitary and totally ok.... Breathe deeply my nerve-wrecked girl, all will be fine. She quickly examined me and handed me an impressive list of antibiotics... “take these for seven days and come back in a week”... I can't argue, and take the list and head to the pharmacy (ezcane) that I am directed to. Three men approach me as I walk into the bustling pharmacy and hand them my prescription. “Türkçe konuşuyoruz?” (Speak Turkish?) “Yok”.... I say in return. They grab my vast array of little white boxes off the shelves and begin to draw pictures on them of when I should take them... a moon for night and a sun for morning. I don't have the heart to tell them that yes, in fact I DO know these words... their drawings are so thoughtful and kind. They package up my medication and send me off on my way. Back on my bike, I cycle home, and thirty minutes later, collapse into my warm bed, too exhausted to do anything else but sleep...

I'm not sure who you think I am, but I do believe you have mistaken me for someone else.

These are the words that run through my head sometimes as I pay special attention to my feet as they carefully traipse over unstable, jagged rock. If I am lucky - with eyes averted and white headphones clearly visible, I will be left alone. Left to make my way to my intended point of destination without aversion... perhaps to even catch a glimpse at some tapestries or scarves as I pass... paying meticulous attention to the mens every movement and quickly turning away when my presence in their vicinity is detected. Not that I am really all that hostile to their ceaseless banter as they entertain the idea of Italian dinners made to perfection, or long conversations over çay, but some days, I just can't be bothered. My introverted CBB-ness kicks in and the ceaseless banter becomes increasingly exhausting and time consuming. Some days however, I give in and partake whole-heartedly, like a game of cat and mouse... I let them believe they play the roll of the cat quite well, as I take mental notes on their every gesture and the infliction in their tone of voice as they tell me about the relative they may have in the US, or how beautifully alluring my sea blue eyes are, and would I please just sit and talk for a little? Please, just for awhile... so I can charm the pants off you... or at least get a small kiss... perhaps here... just so, to the right of my slippery-tongued mouth, just so I can feel your soft lips grace my skin and send shivers of joy throughout my body... No? Well, I suppose a nice smile will do. You come back and visit me now. I am here every day. Here, why don't you take my number... call anytime.

I walk away, usually with an entertained smile on my face, yet however relieved to be back on my way to wherever it was I was going. I have gotten to the point where I allow a few more minutes to get someplace, just so I can factor in these brief encounters. Trust me, they can not be ignored. Really, these men have their charm down to a science, it is incredibly hard to simply brush them aside and continue on your merry way... no matter how much you might like to. The charm Turkish men exude is said to be diabolical – yet I suspiciously abandon any and all belief of sincerity. While everyone glows in the glorious rays of flowing complements, my cynical nature questions EVERY motive behind EVERY nice word spoken or action taken... ah, but it doesn't mean I can't have fun with it... and so I play the game, only unbeknownst to them is that they are also players in MY game as well. While the rules are still in the developmental phase of the experiment, these Turkish men seem to be pleasantly oblivious to their roll in my dubious game.... and that is just fine.

I often feel as if I exist in a world of contrasts and living in Turkey only adds to this perplexing state of consciousness. I am constantly attempting to become a more dynamic, self-assured woman of the world and yet I am living amongst a society where women are more often than not, praised for their insecurity and lead around by the fingertips in their male dominated complacency. Half of the women traipse about in thigh high boots and orangee red lipstick and are ignored by the men they are trying to allure – where I show up with my blue eyes and ankle boots and am the dream date of every man this side of the Bosphorous. I realize it's due 100% to my western allure – again, the stereotype of loose western whores follows me like a dirty beggar relentless for spare change. Part of me chuckles at my cultural misfortune while the other knows all to well that us foreigners play our rolls all too well. Foreign women have a rough time of it you know. While we trek across the planet singularly, we are still human and have wanton desires as well as our male compatriots. Seems so unfair that they are given a free card to sleep with 75% of the women in the city or town they may currently be residing in – while for us, we sleep with a mere handful and are considered all things biblically unholy. Half the time, the men get married to a beautiful 'native' girl, and the women? They keep getting older... while the men they sleep with somehow manage to stay the same age...
This isn't exactly a future roll I particularly want to envision myself playing – but to stop living the life I am living, just out of fear of a future me I have every power to make certain I do not become seems a wee bit insane and illogical. Nonetheless, I will joyously express my vexing frustration and rant about the unfairness of it all throughout the glorious world wide web until I am all ranted out... which as of the moment... is about... now. More on this troublesome subject soon, I am sure.

prose for the wicked

I want to grasp on to the beauty of your core
peel away the jagged layers
the ones that are frayed at the edges, burnt by the fire that shines so brightly inside all that cynical melancholy flowing through you like blood and oil

I want to fall deep into a vast, cavernous abyss – feel my body sway, as it soars hawk-like through the dark emptiness of the time and space continuum
my eyes closed as I fall, deeper and deeper into you, I fall
free-falling, free from the insecurity that follows becoming too familiar with the feel of ones newly formed imprints on memory and flesh
the touch, as it becomes chiseled in body and mind too quickly and then disappears too soon

I want to wrap myself in your sorrow - sew it into the patchwork of my own – name it and forever call it home
to live within its walls, dream-like and untouchable - as the days turn into nights and back again, in a trustworthy consistency which allows for us to sleep restless and wake with nothing lost
worry no more, these tears I've shed will no longer haunt me here
you've shown me the simplicity of the light, so I no longer fear the complexity of the dark