Monet on Boxing Day

The weather today reminded me of why I choose to come to Istanbul every Christmas. It was warm enough for a light sweater, bright and sunny, the sun reflecting off the water, mostly quiet, fishermen throwing lines into the bosphorous... okay, it isn't quite all weather, but it all contributes to the feeling of weather- to that ambiance that surrounds and permeates and is quite classically Istanbul. Scott and I took a minibus down to Istinye Bay, and then walked in the sunshine along the bosphorous down to the museum that is currently housing Monet. Now, I am not particularly big on art defined by fame, so I did not expect to think much of a museum collection of anyone, even Monet, but I figured that when an entire collection is in your city, and free to see, it is a shame to not at least put in the effort for a strolling gander. I was quite surprised by how much I actually enjoyed, not just the paintings, but the entire experience of viewing a museum collection.
My exposure to art is rather limited. I hate the snobbery of it, and the in/out group feeling it inspires reminds me too much of gender conflicts and the LGBTQ determination to be elitist in their out-styles. (I can say that, only because I am in the LGBTQ crowd, ostracized by the competition to be 'most gay.' But that is nothing new. What was new today was my fascination with the art. First of all, the gallery that we went to (ssm) was amazingly well set up. It is an old mansion that was dedicated to art by the owners, who specialized in calligraphy. The top floor is filled with antique, very lavish furniture and paintings, and the calligraphy sets. The basement houses Turkish work, and the middle floor was dedicated to Monet, including plenty of historical and personal information. They didn't have the full set, but most of it was there, including so many variations on water lilies. I skipped quickly through the first room, dedicated to portraiture, and moved into the second room, which had smaller and medium sized landscapes. Boats, water, trees, islands. The colors and the strokes on the paintings were fascinating. I developed a game of moving further away from the paintings to understand them, then  moving in close, and squinting until everything became shiny. It was fascinating. I never knew that impressionism worked like a magic-eye picture. Things popped and glowed and there were so many levels to each painting. I don't think that any of the reprints that I have seen have captured even half of what the paintings portray in real life.  By the second room I was already emotionally affected by the atmosphere and the art. In the third room there were his larger paintings. Some of them just popped and glowed with neon streaks of color that I didn't even imagine possible. I was enthralled. By the time I moved to the final room I was quite prepared for the beauty of the painting that most moved me. It bordered on a spiritual experience and I can honestly say that I was able to project and find myself in that painting, a flower bathed in yellow light, trailing my spirit freely with my partner by my side.
In the final area we talked about the repetition in his work and one of the most impressive things about the experience was actually the dialogue between the paintings. Any one picture, taken out if context, could not be as impressive as the leading story that we had been immersed in, for just a short hour.
This is the first time that I wish I could go back to a museum, for days and weeks, and lose myself and find myself over and over in these paintings. They were magnificent.

The end of the world

They say that the world will end tonight. No one believes it. We have gotten over prophecies, at least on the cosmic scale. We might throw our tarot cards or cast a few bones on occasion, but it is just for fun. Deep down we want to believe it and yet we don't. I say we too casually. Me. I. I do not believe that the world will end tonight. But then, I am not saying that it will. My friends say that it will. Friends. Strangers. People that I casually know and have shared a secret, indefinable breath of intimacy with on occasion. We danced around a fire. We cried. We told the myth of community. Now that community says the world will end, but I think they don't believe it. It is fun to say, to speculate, to imagine the world will end.  It is just a prophecy.
But, what if it wasn't? What if the world really was ending tonight? The possibility gives us a chance to be just a little bit reckless, to act without consequence. I think that is a good release on occasion. We spend too much time living for the future, and yet not enough. The signals are too mixed, all I know is that I should feel guilty about something, one way or another. "You're doing it wrong," has become the slogan of my friends. Well, maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. Maybe every person is doing it just as right as they can, and who are we to judge from our dusty domes in the desert? I have been away too long.
They say that the world will end tonight. I feel like I am on the edge of the world, way over here in Istanbul. It's an exotic place, almost unearthly. It is so big that I can't even thread out a beginning of understanding. The physical place, the people, the food, the air, the history, the tradition, the folklore, the tales of travellers? Where am I supposed to begin? Nowhere. There isn't a beginning when you are perched on the edge of the world, but it is a great place to watch for endings. The end. Shhh. It is creeping up in a cold black sky, grey clouds, and a twinkling blanket of snow. Did you know that it snows in Istanbul? I didn't. I honestly expected nothing more than desert dustings. Where did this blanket come from? It must have dropped from a parting heaven, god saying goodbye, wrapping us up before lowering us into our grave. Everything twinkles so. Silver. Quiet. Muted.
In the darkness, already fallen at half past six, I hear children calling to each other. I don't understand the language. It is okay, it isn't necessary to understand the language of children. Their voices echo. I don't remember hearing them on other nights. It must be the snow, drawing them out to play. To really play- not quiet games like hopscotch and football, but loud, vicious games of cold and hot. Oh, the snow. I sit inside, tucked away and warm. I haven't ventured out into it, and by the time that I do it will have lost its purity. Dim, grey, filled with the mud of the world. Mud and fumes from cars turned into cold crystals. But here I am, for now, alone, surrounded by a muted white wonderland and dreaming of my future. Who knows, maybe the world will end today. I just can't give it any reason to, because tomorrow will be sunnier, and sunnier, and summer will come, and years, and adventures. It's time for me to leave the edge of the world, and get back into life. 

The Darkness

Every year my soul takes a vacation past the darkness. December the days grow shorter and the soul flees. I don't know where it goes, but go it does, somewhere far from me, and it leaves me as some sort of soulless zombie-child for a few weeks, when the days are shortest. I get cranky. I get sad. I have learned that the exhaustion will fade. The new year comes, a most melancholy holiday, and soon after that the days will start to grow longer. Spring will come and then, in a burst of suddenness, there will be summer. The days will be too long and I will feel too alive, and all will be as it should be, as we are told that we are supposed to feel as humans- happy, thankful, joyful. It is hard to be a human in the winter. A summer human, that is. But it is like the world wants to deny that winter is happening. With our heaters, and our false lighting, we claim to have captured summer year round. Be happy, they demand. I refuse, and my soul goes on vacation. For a few weeks, sometimes a couple of months, the depression of the winter settles in. It is not unbearable. I can handle it, quite well, after 30 years of practice. But the people around me seem to have a hard time of it. Come on, get happy, they whine at me. I refuse.
This year has been a little different. Having a lover stretched in bed beside me has kept my spirits up, or rather, down, nailed to me, here with me. It isn't that wee have been running around, hand in hand with a summer hunger, defying the winter. But he accepted my levels, and sunk into a lovely hibernation with me. It has been wonderful. Then, last night, he left. He is only gone for two weeks, and then we meet up again, in Bulgaria. (Oh, how I am petrified to return to Bulgaria!) But as soon as he left the darkness swept in around me. I took the metro to the bus, and waiting in the misty night I felt just how dark and cold it was. Only 7 in the evening and by the time I got home I wanted nothing more than to go to bed. Of course, I didn't. I stayed up and worked a bit on my final projects for the semester. I thought about him taking a bus up over the mountains, down by the sea, to a place that he calls home. No, he doesn't. He calls here, with me, home. I missed him, and my soul tugged itself away. Time for vacation, it said, and numbness settled in. Everything was settled, still.
People have this huge fear of needing others. Love yourself, they say. Be complete on your own, they demand. I am complete on my own. I am a whole person. But, honestly, I like my life better with him. I like waking up with him. I like eating with him. I like solving problems with him. I like walking home with him. I like grocery shopping with him. I like running with him. He is this constant friend, companion, love to me, always supportive and understanding and filled with secrets to discover. I love him. Need? It is a relative word, I think. I am perfectly capable of functioning without him. I can go to coffee shops and write this weekend. I can hang out with my friend next week. I can concentrate on school and clean my house. No, I do not need him, but I love having him in my life, every part, every second, every day.
I still wonder about how sudden our commitment to each other was. Really, within a month of meeting we were all-in, ready to spend the rest of our lives together. I try to remember why I used to think that commitment was such a difficult thing, why love was so hard to admit that sometimes I just ignored it altogether. I can't. With him love is so very easy. It pours out between us. Whispered admissions of love and desire and joy. Why would we ever hide these from another? Why would we ever reject these from another? Society has built a queer prison in which it keeps love and commitment as something sacred. I unlocked the cages and threw away the keys. No more, and enough is enough. I am ready to love, and so very happy that I have found a person brave enough to love, uninhibited, with me.

Birth Control Thoughts

Every night around eight, for the past three weeks, I began to cower. I consider myself a strong woman, and this cowardice frustrated me. At 8:20 I bravely swallowed the pill. Some nights were good and that was the end of it. On the bad nights I stayed awake, uncomfortable in my skin, slightly nauseous and wondering if it could really be that tiny, unassuming pill that caused me to feel that way, or if it was just my imagination. I second guessed myself, led strongly by uncontrollable swells of estrogen-magnified emotion.
The decision to go back on birth control was not an easy one. From age 18, when I first walked into the clinic at my university to ask for birth control, I was unsure of myself. I was already considered a crazy teenage girl, and I had heard horror stories of how the pill affected women. Did I want to make things worse? No, I didn’t, but I was sexually active and I felt immense pressure from society to do something about it. I might not be shunned from sex altogether, but my parents, friends, and high-school sex education classes all demanded one thing from me: responsibility. Since that first moment of youthful responsibility I have been on and off birth control for most of my adult life. Low-dose pills, the ring, the patch and the shot. The choice is overwhelming. It's strange, these options are supposed to offer some kind of freedom and yet I feel confined by them.
This is my minority plague, or at least one of them.
The assignment to write a native anthropology in an auto-style excited me. I could practice a bit more honesty and let my creativity peek out into academia. But my academic self resists any foray into the colorful world of description, let alone emotion. Within a day I had spiraled out of the confidence of notes and citations into a much less clinical, more personal realm. Be vulnerable, I was told. Vulnerability is nothing new to me, but the question was what I should be vulnerable about. My professor said, "Think about what you are a native of." But I heard, "What minority groups are you native of?"
Anthropology fetishizes the exotic. Before it valued societies that were different than the dominant culture. Now it values the change in the individual as a representative of the dominant culture.(1) This gives me two choices. I can write about what I am that no one else is, my minority oddities, or I can write about how I am just like everybody else in a way that is so sensual and exotic that it forces the reader to consider their self for the first time. Feminism can be depressing, celebrating the ways in which every individual must be marginalized.
I do not feel any direct pressure to take birth control. My fiancee is supportive, recognizing that it is my choice, and my government agrees with him, for now. The pressure I feel is subtle, ingrained through years of after-school specials. I have to choose whether to subject my body to the awkward swelling, dryness and tenderness of hormone control. I have to choose whether I want to have bareback sex with the man I love or maintain a semblance of sanity. These are tough decisions, but the modern woman must make them. Sometimes it is barely a decision at all. The taking of birth control is expected, and supposedly the side-effects are a minimal price to pay for the whorish crime of actually desiring sex.
The first time that I bought birth control in Istanbul I was shocked. I went into the pharmacy with my fiance and brazenly asked the pharmacist for yasmin. It was a name that I recognized from the United States and I had read that it was available in Turkey. I didn't know the Turkish words for birth control and explaining with gross motions that I wanted a pregnancy test the week before had been enough cross-cultural fun for me. The pharmacist didn't flinch. She walked out from behind the counter, opened a cupboard, and pulled out a month's supply of the pill. It cost 16 lira. I was shocked. I had not expected it to be such an easy task. In the United States there had always been the scraping together of enough money to pay for an exam, opening my legs for a stranger to swab, and getting the valued piece of paper that my insurance may or may not cover. Then it was finding the sixty dollars each month to pay for these preciously guarded pills. I had no idea that it could be easier. I wondered vaguely about the Turkish women who bought these pills. Were they married? How did they figure out the proper usage if they were not prescribed? I realized that birth control in Turkey, while not entirely different than birth control in the U.S., is different enough to be notable. Better or worse? I didn't have enough information to make a judgement, just enough to jolt me into the realization that yes, there are different ways.
I am a woman, and these are my experiences, but they are not the experiences of every woman. Does taking birth control give me any authority to speak about sex, desire, social pressures and medical experience? The diversity within the field is greater than what binds us as common. The modern woman, in many countries, is faced with the same decisions as I am, but the factors that weigh her decision are infinitely varied. Cultural taboos against sex, access to medical care, and whether there is a need for a prescription. The list grows the more that I delve into it and I find that I have no right to speak for women just because I happen to be one. Some women are thrilled by their access to birth control. For some it may not even cause internal debate. Being inside the question does not give you the answer to the question, assuming that there is actually a question to be asked. Perhaps there is just a collection of experiences.
A main concern in modern anthropology is the misrepresentation and exploitation of groups of people by anthropologists in the name of research. I wonder whether we honestly believe that this can be fixed by giving preference to native anthropology. It is naive to believe that an individual within a group represents that entire group, can fully understand the experiences of the group, or due to in-group loyalty would never exploit their own culture. If native anthropology is meant to protect the people being studied I say that it is not a valid solution. I am a woman. That does not mean that the oppression that I experience beneath the choice of birth control pill is representative of all women. Perhaps I am the minority within the minority. If we are supposed to advocate for the minority, how can we ever be sure that we are advocating for the right underdog?
Darren Ranco and Nancy Scheper-Hughes both described anthropology as a sort of predatory, hunting act. The anthropologist goes out and brings something, usually information and understanding, back for their own community. But who are we returning our spoils to? As an academic practice we are loyal to our academic institutions. We are loyal to our professors, colleagues and publishers. Vine Deloria claims that we should be loyal to the people we are researching. There are all of these questions of who the research serves, of authorship and authority, but not enough questions about the reader. Who is supposed to read our stories? Are they meant for professors? For lawmakers? For the researched? For my own community? The reader should influence the creation of a text as much as the author and the subject does. At the end of her speech Cecil King tells a story of how Native Americans need to protect their own culture before allowing it to be extinguished by others. Their culture needed to be recognized internally before it could be shared. I think this presents a quite valid audience. If an anthropology is written from the inside, for the group, then a dialogue can begin, and an identity can be created. This paper is directed towards women. It is me sending out a pulse and wondering if anyone will echo it. It is not meant to change society. It is not meant to change women, or men, or pharmaceutical practices, but that does not mean that it is worthless. Worth does not have to be measured in change. The beginnings of understanding are worthwhile.
I lasted two weeks this time. It was all of the usual symptoms. I had no desire to have sex (ironic considering their purpose), and the world grew ever more faint. I cried at television shows and experienced fits of uncontrollable irritation, bordering on rage. These are the hormones and emotions that are used to discredit women as feeling too much. I understood why people might say that women are crazy. I felt crazy. However, I felt nothing like a woman. I feel like a woman when I am loving and tender. I feel like a woman when I suffer empathy and desire. These things are emotions. The surges that I experienced while in a hormonal haze were not emotions. There was nothing feminine about them.
The night I skipped my first pill I felt such dejection. I couldn't make it. I wasn't strong enough to conquer these hormones. Within four hours the failure was worthwhile. I was no longer on the verge of tears. I wanted to have sex with my fiance. I am back to normal now, at least by my own standards. By society's judgements? Well, I hid my momentary lapse in sanity so well that hardly anyone commented.
If, as Scheper-Hughes suggests, a society is revealed in what it rejects then the anthropological society reveals itself by rejecting the emotions of females as mad, as if we cannot control them, and as if by giving them allowance we surrender all pretenses of objectivity. I must say that while in my hormone-induced madness, even in the darkest rage of the pills, I was still able to remain aware of different positions, and possible bias that I was experiencing. The question of whether I acted on these biases or not is less important than whether I recognize them now, in the retelling of my experience. Now I can write my explanation of the insanity inflicted by choice, a dilemma born disproportionately by women, and if I am vulnerable enough and honest enough then perhaps it will be a valid piece of work. Perhaps it will add something to the field. Will it be anthropological? Perhaps. Will it be authentic? Yes, and for me that is much more important.

The War Against Wet

I have a love-hate relationship with our apartment. I love its location, up north in a nice, quiet suburb where we feel altogether safe. I love that it is ours, even if only in lease. But it is definitely a poorly constructed apartment. It is cheaply made, probably for the sole purpose of renting out at a profit that will be gained in less than the year that we will be here. The pipes leak, the roof leaks, the floor is saturated... I keep thinking that if we could only have a dry week that this place would dry out and there would be some hope for salvaging it. But apparently dry weeks don't happen in Istanbul. The locals are used to it. I don't know how they survive year after year in this constant wetness. It is a battle that I am not prepared for. The level of cleaning and amount of bleach required just to keep the mold at bay is... well, let's just say that I never even purchased bleach in Arizona. Oh, how I miss the dry, warm safeness of the desert.

The Naked Head

The other day the boy asked me to shave his head. When was the last time that I picked up a set of clippers? It was to my own head. Before that there were a few vital strokes before my eldest brother marched off into the military, and permanently beyond my understanding. I was terrified. Not now, but back then. I had never experienced someone leaving home. He was the first in our family to go. Looking back I cannot even remember a time when he seemed to be there. I distinctly remember my other brother. Our resources crossed often and there was constant bickering between us. I just can't remember my older brother living with us, even when his room was just across the upstairs landing from mine. That is my brother, a ghost, the eternally absent figure. I have no proof that he hasn't changed, and yet isn't that proof enough? Still, even though he wasn't actually there, I was terrified to see him go. I remember the sound of the clippers when we plugged them in, and how important I felt as I took the first stroke from his hair. The lessons I learned that night were deep and passed on to every generation. I learned about submission and pride. There is a proper way to submit. Submission needs to be accompanied by an act of defiance. There is always a line. Always burn something so that they can't take it. Always submit first to yourself. Surrender. Take the spoils, and let your captor have the leftovers. It was a stupid lesson. Surrender and pride. It always is.

But the other day there was no surrender and no pride. There was a certain level of trust and the giggles that accompany it. I was still nervous, but the thrill that I got from removing his head was much more fulfilling than the terrible thrill that I had on that night so many years ago. The buzzing of the clippers was intoxicating. I liked the feel of them in my hand, despite their weak current. I remembered the way it felt, for so many years, to trim up the sides of my head. I loved having my mohawk. In san francisco there was no political or social statement surrounding it. It was not about being different or fitting in. People barely noticed the geen wired pigtails. No, it was about loving my body and listening to how it wanted to be represented, and I missed it. By the time I had finished shaving the boy's head I had made a decision. My hair had to go.

After we finished his hair there was a moment of pinning, referencing pictures on the internet and a reorganization of the pins. Then there was a deep breath and staring into the mirror as the man that I love took away a small patch of my hair. Comparatively it wasn't much, just the tiniest hint at freedom. Freedom. Really, that is what it feels like. The freedom of wind on my scalp. The freedom on his fingers petting the tiniest patches of fur. The freedom to look how I want. Yes- what was once pride and surrender has transformed magically into a treatise on freedom. And, how free have I found myself over the years? Through the slavery of state and society I have burned a slight hole, burrowed myself in, and can safely say- I have tasted freedom. 

On Movement aand Experience

Yesterday the sun was shinning and aas I walked from campus to campus I trailed my fingers on the rails and had a itching desire in my belly to allow my feet aan extra freedom of movement. I saw the world as so much more than flat. It had so many surfaces that begged to be jumped upon and enjoyed. I watched my cohort moving from class to class, a line of efficiency. One foot in front of the other, shoulders back, head up, destination and goal. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to express in some physical way, but mostly just to move. Bodies are meant to be enjoyed. Movement should be something pleasurable. But I restrained myself. I wish I could say I don't know why, but I knnow that I caaved to the restraints of social expectation. I covered my joy, and life because I didn't want to attract attention.
This morning I dug out my mp3 player to have some music on the bus. A world seen through music is quite different from a world seen in its native sounds. It takes on the story of a music video. I was listening to Parov Stellar, aa nice swingy beat, and the buildings came to life more vibrantly than they have for the past 4 months. I thought about intentional meditation and when you can actually start teaching a child awareness practice without frustrating their natural developmental progress by demanding too much, too soon. I felt the sunshine and although it is wet here I can't help but compare it to Tucson in its mildness this late into the season. Then it started. A little head bob, the tapping on my fingers. Curbs became much more than a step but an excuse to elongate my legs, stretch out my toes, to pause and feel weight and gravity. To understand movement.
Oh, how I yearn to dance. None of this hiding in dark discotechs with drink in hand. I want sober, intentional, playful movement of bodies under the full exposure of the sun. I want a campout filled with love and joy and laughter and above all, expression.
Desire is fun, movement is better. Life is good.

Family is Family

I am not particularly close to my blood relatives. The distance has become so ingrained and so natural that I was actually, honestly suprised when my parents very easily said that they would fly across the world in order to attend my wedding. My father hates to fly. I have not forgotten that about him, and my mother has never left the country except for quick border hops into mexico and canada back when they did not count as actual excursions from the United States. I had an expectation that they would think about it for awhile and ultimately the trip would be too much for them, and they would just wait for me to come home in a year or so in order to meet my fiancee. They suprised me though. Within a week they had applied for passports, bought airline tickets, and started a packing list. They searched through my left-behind luggage that has been carelessly stored with them for years to find my grandmother's wedding ring and my prom dress. They have offered to help in any way that they can, including paying for hotels for me and my fiancee when needed. It has been an overwhelming show of love and support, and I have been truly touched.
My familial identity has never been an easy one. From a very young age I was the black sheep of the family. My brothers were more outgoing, and more like my parents. I was this far-off dreamer that, really, very few people could reach. I was a stubborn child, not in any loud or rebellious way, but in a way that made it difficult to form those connections that I see my friends valuing now. When I was 18 I moved out, and I more or less never looked back. I like to think that my parents are proud of me. I like to think that they talk about their daughter who is out travelling the world and serving in Peace Corps, and getting her degrees, and living life out on her own. But even when I hear them say that at least when I don't call they know they did something right, because I don't need them, I hear a twinge of hurt and longing in their voice... wishing that their little girl was still 12 and under their roof, and needing them.
Something happened last night in my family that is altogether tragic. I won't go into details except to say that my family has known its fair share of tragedy and bad luck, and this is among the milestones. It made me realize that my parents are really all right. They are filled with love and compassion, which are some of the more important traits in life.
This jolt in my life shook me into the reality that I am really starting a family with Nikola. It makes me wonder how most families start. Are they intentional? Are they aware? Are they fueled by love or some sort of need? For a moment I skipped a breath and wondered if I am doing the right thing. It is so hard to have a positive familial experience in the world. But then he held me, and kissed me, and I realized that I was just being silly. We are very much in love, and two very loving, considerate, caring people. We are both excited to start a family (the family of the two of us, but yes, there will be little ones added in the future.) and I don't think I need to concern myself with disaster. He is an amazing person and I refuse to question my own self based on my past. The person I am now is altogether ready for these deep, rich, lifelong connections.

The time has come... part III- jealousy and rings

One ring to rule them all. What is a ring? In my paper on the symbolism of modern weddings I am briefly examining the modern abstraction of the ring. I take the ring off my finger and lay it on the table next to me. My finger feels naked without it, eveen though I have only been wearing it for a couple of months.
The ring is gold. I know this because it doesn't leave green marks on my finger, and because of the little number printed on the inside of the ring. It is light, and makes a delicious sound when placed on a hard surface. Although it is light and delicate it seems to also be indestructable. I know this is not true. Gold has a relatively low melting point compared to other metals. How did it get its shape in the first place?
Shape. It is perfectly round. Japanese monks spend a lifetime trying to draw a perfect circle. No, they do not try. Perhaps they try in the beginning, but eventually they learn to let go of the trying and to allow a circle to express itslef through them. I never finished that story- do they succeed? Can perfection be obtained? A circle is mathematical. Goldsmiths have moulds that have been designed by computers. They can make a perfect circle. The ring really has no beginning and no end. It hardened into existence complete.
The stamp tells me the value of the gold. Its purity. I have no idea how to read the stamp. Purity and value are foreign languages to me. I would rather wrap my tongue around whispered "I love you"s than to spend my time learning the symbols of every jeweller. I have no idea how to buy a ring.
It is his mother's ring. A symbol of family, that he handed to me. I took it with a cuirious furrow of the brow aand chewed on it for over a week before I burst with the question of whether he knew what that means to a girl. He knew.
Now we are getting rings of our own. His will return to his mother. My mother is bringing my grandmother's ring. It is another symbol of family. It is also a symbol of lasting, as my grandparent's marriage lasted until death did them part. It feels very different than the symbol of his family, and part of me wants to have a symbol of our family. But heirlooms are made through generations, not on arbitraty whims of the now.
The ring means forever. It is a sign of ownership, like the peircings and collars of slaves. It is a sign of fidelity. It is a sybol of wealth. It is so mixed up in history and society that I am uncertain how I actually feel about it.
We decided to get tattoos instead of rings. Tattoos are forever. You can not take them off. When a marriage ends and the ring is removed there is a period of aa tanline, perhaps, but it fades. We do not want the possibility of fading. Forever is something to be taken seriously.
Most of all, rings are a symbol of the modern christian monogamy. I am not a christian and neither is he, but he tells me that I am his only and I believe that he honestly is monogamous to the core. I wonder if that will change in time, and I want, most of all, to let him blossom without corruption. The thing is that he put the ring on my finger and he called me his, and he did so without the slightest hint of jealousy. How can a person be possessed without jealousy? What is possession? The modern feminist argues that we are all our own and no one can be possessed. Cyrano took ownership to mean a responsibility to the other. "The things you own end up owning you," is not far from the truth. So then, possession, the naming of something or someone as yours, is really a surrender to the desire to care for them, and take responsibility for them. It has nothing to do with jealousy and status. That came later. Love begets possession, and it feels beyond great to be possessed.

The Time Has Come... part II- weight

It is just a number, I know, and I have struggled as most girls and some boys do, against the opression of that number. The ideal weight. Ideal to whom? Where do we get these numbers in our heads? Mine came from my adolescence, and is strongly associated with that time of purity aand youth. I was 15 or 16 and never bothered to weigh myself, but somehow I know what I weighed. 116, 118, The number kept pace with the rising gas prices and still I have no idea when it became more than 120. It was just that I woke up one day and weight became a question and I was 140. How was that possible? I was a tiny girl.
Strangely weight and size are so confusedly wrapped up in each other that I am tempted to say that they have nothing to do with each other. I want to weigh less, and yet I like my body shape. I am okay with where things are laid out. I like the hint of curves that I have. When I look at myself I do not feel overweight. When I look at a scale I do. I have never really admitted it, except to my closest of friends, that I have a secret weight that I want to be. I am not that type of girl. I do not diet, I cultivate healthy eating habits. I aam not the type to obsess over clothes or how they fit, or looking good. It isn't about that. It is very simply about a number. 120. A number that hovers over me insultingly.
When I created my identity I had brown hair, sometimes colored, I was an alternative girl, I was active, I had bad skin, and hazel eyes, and I weighed 120 pounds. It is how I see myself.
This doesn't come up often, but since I started running, and had to keep track of m weight for training, it has snuck into my thoughts. Now I miss having a scale. Do I weigh less? Am I closer to that number? I feel like without a scale I am floating without a name, not sure if I am drifting further or nearer to my destination. Target.
I tell myself that this is nonsense. Health matters so much more than a number. Health is not defined by a number. Attractiveness is not defined by a number. It seems to be a little prince issue- adults always needing to measure things in order to give them meaning. So I walk by the store and I think about throwing down 40tl for a scale. After all, I am going to start training for my next marathon soon. But then I wonder why I have this obsession. This guilty little goal that will never, and probably should never, be achieved by me.
I feel such guilt that I struggle with this. I am supposed to be "better" than such mundane struggles. I should be struggling with ethics and questions of the soul, not weight. It isn't something that I think about constantly, but it floats into my head often enough that I wonder why, and how it came to be, and wish for it to just fade away. 130, 140, are good numbers too, and I have known them for quite some time.

The time has come... (part I- Academia)

The time has come, my soul has said, 
To write of many things, 
Of weights and scales and social acts, 
Of jealousy and rings. 
Of construction of realities 
And the madman's right to sing. 

There comes a time when life no longer makes sense. All of the things that you have been working towards crumble when hit by a single word. These are the times of crisis- the quarter-life, the mid-life, and if you are me, the every couple of years-life crisis. I have grown accustomed to these crises, more or less, so that when hit with the final, soul-shattering, mind-blowing bullet I give little more reaction than a hot face, a hint at the possibility of tears and a few deep breaths. These are growing experiences.

For the past few months I have had it in my mind that I will apply to graduate school. In many ways it seems like the next logical step. After all, I love academia and I am rather successful in it. Despite the fact that I am no longer anything close to the traditional student I am still faced with the choice: grad school or work after graduation? I realized that both ideas terrify me, but grad school does so a little bit less than actually starting my career. (Yes, I have been "working" in my field for the past ten years, but the experiences that I have had as a volunteer and crew leader have been the experiences of working within someone else's construct. To actually start out on my own and stick to my values in the career sense is still foreign territory to me.) I chose an okay graduate school that my grades and test scores (although the tests have yet to be taken) will surely gain me entrance, and I just thought that the next two years would be research and writing. Case closed, life is simple. I get to stay in Turkey, be in love, and thoroughly research my career field before getting my feet wet. However, something as simple as turning in a research proposal last week has made me question whether or not that will actually be helpful to me, and whether I am just doing it because I am scared of the real world.

The class that I had to submit a research proposal for was my communication and media course. We have been discussing how different types of communication are constructed and how the construction perpetuates the status quo. I wanted to do my research on billboards as an advertising agent that is created for specific places and times. I had what I thought were some pretty solid arguments, but when I submitted my proposal my professor informed me that my basic proposition was flawed: that in Istanbul people do not at all regulate billboard advertising. It is an honest enough, if embarrassing, mistake. But here is the thing: I don't believe it is a mistake. Sure, there may not be formal groups protesting billboards, and there may not be city ordinances regulating the billboards, but I do believe that there is a link to billboard advertisement and the locale that they are placed beyond visibility, even in Istanbul. Perhaps the research is too large to undertake for one semester and I am not even interested by it, but there is still a strong possibility that I am right, or maybe I am wrong but the relationship between culture and billboard advertising in Istanbul is still worth exploring and understanding. However, my proposal was rejected, quite simply and easily. I find it ironic that the day my professor rejected my proposal was also the day that we were reading Foucault's thoughts on discourse. He spoke of the limiting factors of commentary and the educational institution- how everything must say the same thing that has never been said before, and at the same time must say the new thing that has already been said. He speaks of the madmen, and how their ramblings are discarded. He speaks of all of the areas of discourse that we do not allow in our lives. This article had a very strong effect on me. It depressed me, and in the midst of that depression this final straw of rejection (which, lets be honest, is never easy to bear) wormed its way into me and made me realize that I am not actually "good" at academia. For years every thesis that I have made has been rejected. My instructors all tell me, in not so many words, "That is not the way the world is." Usually I rework my writing to reflect a reality that has already been proven by research and that they understand. Sometimes I don't, and I get points for the style and logic of my paper even though they disagree with the main premis of the article.

What I realized last night is that I can function in academia. I can play the game. But coming back to school after 10 years in the real world I realize that it is just a game. It is just repeating the same things that have been known for too long. It is just accepting the reiteration of ideas that are rarely new, and any alternative viewpoint is not accepted. My viewpoint is never accepted. I am tired of being told that the world is nothing like what I see and feel. I am tired of being told that my experiences are not valid. I am tired of being told that I am the madman and my voice is fun but useless. I am, most of all, tired of having to hide myself and my opinions in order to be considered valid. Is this what academia is, and do I belong here?

I am not making any quick decisions. Possibly I will get over this in a month and keep working on those grad school applications. I will spend two years researching my field, ignoring the things that I think actually matter in order to get published, and I will find it worthwhile. But maybe, just maybe, there are other things that are more important in life than research. Maybe it is time to really start working towards the things that I value. Maybe, I am realizing 10 years later that it is not that I got into the wrong major, but that there is no major for me. I will always be grateful that I am lucky enough to experience college. I have had the time to remain infantile and to thoroughly question the world. I have been exposed to many theories and schools of thought that have definitely shaped my worldview. However, maybe enough is enough. Maybe it is time to protest the acceptance and strike out without a higher degree. 

Fear of the unknown

The most attractive thing to me is the unknown. There is something about making eye-contact with a complete stranger that thrills me. In mere seconds an entire lifetime of possibility passes between you, and the buzz that is shared in that moment is electrifying. It is intoxicating. I am not talking about attraction. Well, yes I am, but not of the traditional sort. I am not writing only about lust and love. I am writing about recognition and the desire for understanding. I am trying to capture the moment that holds not only romance but the possibility of a deep friendship or a challenging enemy. Sometimes, hell, to be honest, most of the time, the best seconds of knowing someone come in the moments before knowing them. You can go ahead and think that I am callous, preferring the objectified disembodiment of fantasy to the rich depths of real relationships, but you know it isn't true. You know that I love intimacy and friendship. I love the joy of discovering truths that I could not imagine about people. But think about it. There is one perfect moment when you see someone and they are everything that you want them to be. They are funny, and their voice (although you've never heard it) is the sweetest sound that you can imagine. They are warm, and comforting. They are exciting and dangerous. They hold the knowledge of the world. They will be there when you cry, and their hijinks will always make you smile. They remind you of your best friend when you were five. Your parents would hate them, your current friends would not understand them, but you would love them. Across the room they are all of this and more. They are undefined possibility, and as long as they stay far enough away from you they can continue to play the hero in your fantasies. You wait for them to drop into your life, and sometimes they do. They give a word or a smile, and maybe it is not everything that you imagined but we are resourceful beings that quickly recreate our lies and so it is enough to fuel their perfection. You delicately ride this golden wave of mystery, hoping to just barely graze their surface, knowing any misstep will plunge you deep into their being.

It is there, beneath the waters of the flesh, that the imperfections lie. They become a friend or enemy and they are never what you never were aware that you expected from them. They are always different. Sometimes they are better, sometimes not as good, and even though it is not quite a disappointment it is still a bit of a let down, a deflation of excitement. You can grasp them, touch their existence. They become real, with all of their imperfections and surprises. For better or worse, the mystery is gone and they become a person.

Now the truth is that I am not writing about anyone that I have lost. The plunge into reality has usually been quite sweet, and I realize that there will be infinite fantasies out in the great wide open. What I am afraid of is loosing my own mystery. I know how enticing the unknown is, and I know that the known cannot compare to the unknown. It isn't better, it isn't worse, it is on a different plane altogether. I know this and yet the possibilities that I will never have after hello has been said cut me to the core. Even while writing this I know that it is not a big deal. I can whimper and whine over the perfection that I am not, but I will always desire the arms of a lover, the knowing smile of a friend, the pointed comment from a rival, and the stinging love of family rather than the cool, distant excitement of mystery. 

DIY turns me on

For quite some time my mac has been having some issues, from the fans not working in any positive way to the battery no longer holding a charge. An issue that I should have taken care of awhile back, but instead just slapped a piece of electrical tape on, has now become something that threatened any more use of the machine: the power supply. 

Anyone who has a mac knows that the power bricks are AWESOME in their magnetic design, and suck in every other way, including how easy the cord splits and how expensive they are to replace. Electrical tape had been doing an OKAY job of holding mine together for the past three months, but it finally gave up last night and the damage looked a little like this, without the friendly red and green lights that give me such a thrill when it actually works: 

My first reaction was to have the pouty freak-out that I so enjoy, followed by looking up where to buy new power bricks for a reasonable price. Unfortunately we still have not gotten the whole package-delivery thing fully worked out at our new place, and so Nikola suggested that we try to fix it. What did we have to lose? It was broken anyways. We looked up a few different videos on the internet, pulled out our cheap-o and rather useless soldering iron, and started taking things apart.

While laying in bed in the morning we had debated what to do with a sunshiny sunday. Perhaps we would go to the mall, as I had a slight desire to see what they have going on there. (It is an odd desire, but I am filled with those these days). Perhaps we would go down by the water, take a picnic, and see the Monet exhibit. Perhaps we would waste the entire day in front of the computer, watching movies and getting some new-lover-cuddles in. Nope. All of our plans were quickly and happily tossed aside for a bit of DIY.

 I must say that I absolutely love and appreciate living with a boy who is as in to DIY as I am. So far we have figured out how to deal with mold, taken parts of our ceiling apart, taken all of our washing machine apart, and as of today, fixed my power brick. Nikola is great at these little projects as he doesn't get easily frustrated. I am also great at them. I do get easily frustrated, but I also have a bit of frustrated determination that works in my favor, as well as a background in self-sufficiency that most girls in the world lack these days. But I think the best attribute that we both share is a certain level of lust towards DIY projects. We both recognize how fun it is to take things apart, see how they work, and hopefully put them back together working a little better. It is a fun hobby that we can share and I cannot imagine dating someone who did not like to do these things. However, thinking about sharing my life and home with someone I am now hyper-aware of how awesome it is going to be to live together, fixing things as they come and go.

We spent the beginning of the afternoon taking apart the tip of my ac supply. We then soldered a bit, realized it wouldn't work, and soldered a bit more. We had a few failures, and a little bit of grrr coming out of me, but in the end there was the joy of seeing THIS:

The light at the end of the tunnel, and the part of DIY that gets me right in the gut :) 

I get all warm and gooey inside... just like the hot glue that I used to make my tummy holding red/green buddha :) 

Brains in Vats

Today I was in my communication's class and I was reminded of the "brain in a vat" theory commonly used in philosophy and science fiction. (You know, neo is a body in a vat... but only because bodies are more fun to set free.) At the beginning of the class our professor apologized for not returning any of our emails over the holiday and informed us that it was due to his father's death. We were shocked and expressed our condolences and he moved on with the lecture. It was a little unsettling how normal his lecture was. He had the same level of energy and passion for the topic. I would have never guessed that his weekend was filled with such a sorrowful event. Oddly enough though, I only had trouble focusing for a few minutes, and before I realized what was happening I was drawn into the normal awkward teasing out of ideas that is our class.

An hour and fifteen minutes later we took our break. I was sipping tea with some of the other girls there on exchange and they inquired about my boyfriend. I informed them that no, my boyfriend does not live in Turkey with me, but my fiancee does. They were very happy for me and a discussion about marriage and our plans for our wedding followed. But after a few questions the rest of the class filtered in and we picked up our intellectual pursuits exactly where we had left them.

At that moment I felt stripped of my identity. It was an odd sensation as I had never really valued or even thought about my personal identity in class before. I have always taken for granted that class is a place where we leave behind our personal lives and speak in theory. I never thought of people coming to class as full-fledged individuals with all sorts of experiences and priorities that have nothing to do with our lecture. In a lecture there is that annoying girl who always brings up the same topic that doesn't actually have anything to do with what we are talking about, and the cute boy who actually did the reading and voices his opinion that echoes yours just before you raise your hand, and the girl who seems to know everything and the guy who doesn't pay any attention and you kinda wonder what is in his notebook, and whether the girl next to him is actually taking notes on her laptop or checking her email. They are not complete people. They are momentary actions. They are glimpses at habits. They are most of all a vessel for thought that sometimes bears their duty easily and sometimes struggles.

It is like instead of being a single brain in a vat, all alone in nothing, we are a group of brains that were shoved into a jar and get shaken up for an hour or so. This realization caused two longings in me. First of all I longed to know my class more. I wanted to go out and have beers with them and ask them about their boyfriends and girlfriends and extracurricular activities. Secondly, I wanted to go back in time and enroll in a university that uses a small cohort system for their undergraduates because there is something altogether enticing about actually knowing the background and inspiration that gives birth to the processes that you get to hear only the results of in a lecture.

Oh well, there is no going back. But there is always now, and sometimes tomorrow.  

In defense of marriage...

I have long been the type of girl who thought that she was never going to get married. No, not one of those desperate, forever-alone girls stuck on self-pity and thirsting for a man, but more of one of the girls who just never quite got the point of marriage. I have seen too much divorce to really take marriage seriously, and I do not think that it is right for the state to monitor what is or is not a family based on religion. On my 13th birthday I vehemently disavowed marriage, promising my father that he could look forward to having an unwed daughter forever. Over the years I have been a bridesmaid and a groomsman, in weddings to celebrate unions that have now been dissolved, and both times I felt a little cheated by the whole ordeal. (I know, it is selfish. I am sure that what the bride and groom felt was much more significant than what I felt, but if I believe in marriage, and if I believe in a wedding, then it is a moment when you ask the support of your family and friends for your union, and make a promise not only to your significant other, but also to them. The promise to your sweetheart that you will be forever theirs can easily be made in bed, and sealed with a kiss. The rings and ceremony is for the social seal of the marriage.) So, all in all it was easier to forego the idea of marriage and just live each moment how I saw best, in a very selfish, self-defined, egotistical way. I was quite happy that way.

So, why the change in theory?

Well, first of all over the past couple of years there has been a change in my heart. Not only have I finally settled the restlessness that drove me as a young adult, but I have also gained more respect for the social world. Five years ago I was determined to go through this world alone. I was an island. Now I have a much deeper understanding of community and friendship. I still don't have much respect for religion or the state, but I can see the need for the support of friends and family when you choose to be together with one person for the rest of your life. I think that some of this is due to the natural aging process, but most of it is due to my peace corps experience... seeing the way other families live; both American and Bulgarian.

Secondly, I have honestly never felt about any one else the way that I feel about Nikola. I thought that I knew love, and I did. I knew all sorts of love. But with him I also know this huge, unbeatable trust, and the depth of it is unbelievable. I am pretty much drunk on trust these days. Trust and acceptance. It is wonderful. For that reason, I would never let him go, and also, I happily want the entire world to know that we are together, side by side.

So, one morning we woke up and were talking about when we would get married. There was no proposal. We both just knew that we would get married. Conversations about immigration and residence permits and our landlord only renting to married couples had already helped to plant the idea within us. Two years from now, next summer, and then, suddenly, why wait? We decided that we will get married this winter. I know that it is quick for a lot of people. We have been dating for three months. When we get married it will have been six. It isn't much time. But I think that we are both the type of people that once a decision is made there is no going back and forth, trying to decide if it is right or not. It just is.

I don't think either of us really have a clue about how to get married. There are so many traditions that we first have to learn (as our experience is quite limited) and then cut through to get what we really want our wedding and marriage to be about. I think this is going to be a very fun three months, followed by a very fun party, followed by a very fun lifetime with the most incredible, inspirational person that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

Intimacy

What is intimacy? Is it the vulnerability associated with nudity? Is it sharing your shame, or your dreams that you fear may never come true? Or perhaps it is less to do with vulnerability of any type and more about consistency- sharing regular time and experience together and being honest in your actions and reactions to things. I have seen couples search together for this elusive intimacy, and some succeed and some fail to find it. I have seen individuals yearn, thirst, beg, and desire for intimacy in all of its forms. And where can it be found? In a friend? A lover? Family? The unconditional love of a pet?

Last night at school we had a very intimate presentation topic. Our block dealt with Visual and Sensory Anthropology and our assignment consisted of bringing in 3 sensory objects that contextualized us in a cultural or political setting. I went directly towards scouting for my objects as my focus as scouting is full of symbolism, and experiential learning. However, as I listened to the presentations of my classmates I started to feel that I had ducked out of the assignment. They brought in such personal, intimate examples. From the football cards that one boy had traded with a now-deceased friend that contextualized the politics of war for him, to a cut-off dreadlock that helped a girl express her non-hetero-normative gender, these secrets were dark and personal. I could have brought in any number of secrets. I could have shared. Instead, what was most important to me was not secret at all. It was very open, and acceptable. Is intimacy only built in secrets and shame, and the strength to share what is unacceptable? Perhaps it is built in shared passion like the boy who charmingly spoke of his obsession with the ticking sound of clocks...

I came home and my boyfriend met me at the bus stop with a jacket. He wrapped it around me and took my hand. We shared a dinner, cuddled up to each other and watched a television show. We kissed. He read me a story. We made love. In the morning we cuddled and I talked and talked, telling him all about the class from the night before. I revealed to him my fear that I was loosing my academic touch, and my joy at the response I received from my instructor. (A very positive  response, which also contained specific areas to work on.) It is a relationship that doesn't lack for intimacy, for trust, for a depth of (Here I must insert a word that does not quite explain what I am going for, but there is no other) security. I have no fear with him.

Yet the teasing out of new intimacy reminded me not to get wrapped up in the soft love of a single individual. The intimacy of friendship, of family, of crushes, of animals on the streets and even the trees that grow around us are all intimacies that I need in order to be a happy, whole individual. 

Fall in Istanbul

I have never been very impressed by fall. In fact, I have been known to be downright hateful towards any season that was not summer. However, leaving the safe haven of my eternal summer deep in the southwest I have come to experience, timidly at first and then with a bit of curious anticipation, other seasons.

For me fall has always been a time of ending. It reeks of decay and death. The leaves turn brown, the sap in trees runs slowly, and it tells the coming of winter. Winter, which could be appreciated for what it is if we didn't try to control it... if winter consisted of blankets and hibernation  books and knitting and hot chocolate and mindless movies, then it wouldn't be so bad. But winter consists of bad drivers, waiting in the cold for public transportation, heaters on too fully in public buildings, and sickly lighting schemes. It is not something to look forward to in the way most modern humans experience it, or try not to. Winter is an awful dissonance between realities (the desired and the experienced) and a time of humans waging war against the eminent will of nature, and fall is just the ramping up to that disgusting display. Or so I thought.

Here, in Istanbul, fall has a completely different feel than what I have experienced before. It is mid-October now and the weather changes daily- some days a bit windy, some days warm and mild, occasionally chilled and rainy. Every day is a surprise. I enjoy the juxtaposition of short sleeves and scarves, or long sleeves and bare necks. I love the gentle breeze that, somedays, comes up off the bosphorous, kissing along the neck of my university campus. It is a breeze without temperature, neither cooling nor warming, it just lifts the small hairs on your arms or neck and then places them down again, ever so gently, without any effort or crude moments of shock. Everything seems peaceful. People are settling into their routines, they have unwound from summer vacation, and they are drinking coffee and talking in low voices with small, satisfied smiles.

I never knew that a month could be like this. Or else I forgot. What I do know is that right now, in this time and this year, I am exactly where I need to be. The place of Bogazici opens up to me and folds over me, and I feel safe, and tickled with tiny promises of experience. Fall or not, October in Istanbul is perfect. 

Subtle Gear Shift

When the cub came back from Bulgaria he brought a delightful array of presents for me: a family ring to solidify our fake marriage, coffee mugs from his parent's trip to moscow, and a bicycle to take me here and there and, on a good day, back again to him. The bike is something that makes me squee inside. A friend once defended his reasoning for getting his daughter a bicycle as it being a rite of passage and an experience in responsibility and freedom. In the gridlock of Istanbul that freedom is a breath of fresh air. There is nothing quite like being able to control my pace and speed and get to where I want to be, hills and effort be damned. But the bike has one thing strange for me: the gear shift. I am used to indexed gear shifters. You know, the type that click thoughtlessly into place with the flick of a finger. This shifter requires a little more thought and finesse. Effort, time, whatever you will. It isn't that I can't handle it, but I definitely have been spoiled by magic for my entire life.

Riding home the other day I realized how much my relationship outlook is like a gearshift. I have always been the type of person that locks immediately into place in a relationship. For me there is no "dating - for - fun," phase. There is love, or not-love and there is no reason to dabble in a relationship if the connection is not there, just for amusement or companionship. At the same time there is no reason to pretend that the connection isn't there when it is. I have never been the type to play hard to get. People think that this is an unhealthy way to live- that it betrays some personal attachment issue deep within me. Maybe this is true, and maybe not. All I know is that it has been the only thing that makes sense to me. If you feel love, then say it. If it is important to you then care for it. It seems quite simple to me, not some twisted form of desperation. However, finally, this bike has helped me to understand the other perspective. There is no commitment in the shift. You can get halfway towards the next gear and decide that you were wrong and back down without consequence. There is no stopping, no turning, no jolt in the indecision. At the same time, sliding up to the next level is an awkward experience with a bit of friction until you are settled, sometimes not worth the intention that it requires. I get why people find it so difficult to find a relationship and settle into it; why they date so many people that it will obviously (even to them) never work out with. Well, call me easy and automatic, but I will stick to my indexed life. 

Victory as an Interpretation

It is strange to be back in academia. I am waiting for the day that I go to school and it feels normal. Right now I am still in wonder of it. I vaguely recall these sensations of stretching within my mind. Ideas bounce up against the edges of my understanding, demanding more room. They lick at my capacity, tickling, demanding. The vague recollections that I have of this are actually quite scary. I was never the type of kid to practice moderation and when I learned something new I went heels up all the way in. That is not to say that I got caught up in all kinds of fads, although I went through the usual college development, but more that I would wrap up in trying to understand something new so much so that I became a knot- a black void. I am sure that I spent most of my high school and college career incomprehensible to those around me. Now that I am back in that familiar setting, feeling my mind jump off cliffs, I wonder how much of the catatonic dreaming that I experienced was due to the search for understanding and how much was from my chemical imbalances. I don't see many other people walking around with their heads positively fizzing, but then I suppose I can't see their brains. Actually I believe that most people go to college seeking knowledge, not understanding, and so they activate a completely different part of their brain than I do during and around classes. But sometimes the quest for "understanding" goes deep enough that even I call bullshit on it.

I am taking an English Literature class- "The Modernist Novel." I quite like it. It gives me an excuse to read some fiction, our professor is passionate and knowledgeable, and in a lot of ways it reminds me of my Shakespeare class, which thoroughly challenged me back when I was 19. Today though, I could barely keep from laughing with the absurdity of our discussion. We do "close readings" of the text, which means that we go through line by line, word by word, and relate everything to the social issues and influences of the modernist period. In theory that is okay. However, at one point, when we were looking at pronoun usage and other word choice issues, I realized that what we were doing was rather pointless. Yes, everything can be related to the early 1900's, but that does not mean that the choices were intentional. Conrad did not choose these lines. They came out of him. Writing was not a strict formula, a scientific exploration. It was a creative act. One could argue that his time period influenced every aspect of his writing and so therefore becomes visible in every word, but I think that is stretching things a bit. At some point lines are just filler to get to a bigger idea, and a close examination is really us just masturbating our own historical frame.

Once I realized this I really started to enjoy the class. It is a game. There is nothing to understand. It is an exercise in application. There is no truth. There is no right or wrong. After all the work and effort and whether or not you choose to enjoy the experience, Victory was really just an interpretation. 

Friends

I met a guy during orientation. A group of us went out to grab beers afterwards and I thought, sitting around a table and talking about nothing, that any one of these people could become my friend. This guy turned up in one of my classes, and we magically run into each other occasionally. Two weeks later he casually, in some form of teasing, drops the f-word. You know, the one that for some reason usually makes my spine crinkle in bad ways: "friends." I very quickly squashed that delusion with a sharp flick of the tongue. "We are not friends, yet."

It's a critical moment in friendship, for me. A person who is actually interested in becoming my friend will dig deeper. They will ask why, and what is a friend. They will try to learn my definitions and possibly deeper understanding and friendship can be born. It's rare though. Most people take if offensively, because most people have no real desire to be friends with anyone. They just want everyone to view them positively. Well, a friend is someone much more than a person that I kinda like and think is okay. A friend is someone that I trust and love. I am sorry, that does not come without some effort.

Usually.

On Friday I stopped by the doner place near to my house. For some reason I feel comfortable there. I feel welcome. There I had a small chat with the man selling doners and we were so excited and happy to have that conversation. I was offered tea, the Turkish sign of friendship, which I accepted, and I skipped out of the shop thinking to myself, "Hey! I made a friend!"

Stop. Pause. What? Why is it that I would consider him a friend and not this student? Is it because I expect more from Americans, or people who have a fluent understanding of the english language? Is it because I have a certain set of barriers for each person, and if they have the potential to be closer than their friendship is more precious and harder to obtain? Is it a quantity thing- if there are more of a single type of person around then it requires more? An identity thing? Something that I just cruelly inflict on people who I think MIGHT get it? I am not sure. It whirlwinded me into having to think more about friendship... again. <Sigh> 

Is this real?

I am sitting in an empty classroom, taking a little of the campus internet to finally update my blog and try to figure out what 2+2 equals in Turkey. This morning I woke up, had a coffee and played guitar and then took a bus along the channel to my university. I walked down the steep university hill towards the south campus, taking in the bobbing boats in Bebek and debating the possibility of taking my longboard to school despite the steep hills and occasional speed-bumps. I grabbed another coffee and a pizza (black olives are briny here, and very tasty in the morning) and wandered the Engineering building to find a room that was not in use. It is such a minor morning. Nothing extraordinary happened, but what I cannot quite believe is that I am back on a university campus after nearly 10 years.

University campuses are  different from community college campuses. Community college lacks the, well, community, that universities try to cultivate. The students are too diverse, focused on different aspects of their lives. Here there is a strong majority of traditional students, all focused on two things: their studies and their social lives. Work and career are still whispers in their souls that they have paid little attention to. They think they are academics. They are here where things are safe. As my instructor for Communications and Media pointed out: here you can try things, you can make mistakes, you can create as many alternative models that you wish, and you do not have any consequences. Academia is a place for the theoretical. It is a place for taking chances. And the students talk about politics and current events and social theory instead of gossiping and complaining about administrative issues. They think that they are academics. Of course, the cats here think that they are lions, so maybe we are all just fooling ourselves, but I will take it while I can get it.

Learning from cats

So I thought that I would take a few moments this morning and write a bit about my newest love. (No, I am giving the blog a break from writing about Nikola... this little guy is newer and slightly more furry.) :

The hostel that I am living and working at is called, "Stray Cat Hostel." I think the name is very appropriate, especially this month as it is filled with the lost little kittens of erasmus who are desperately looking for accommodation for their coming semester or years. The hostel has three cats that actually belong to it: one who just had kittens, one I haven't seen, and one that I have fallen in love with and want to talk about.

He doesn't really have a name. His name was Sofi when a hostel worker found him on the street and insisted that he was a girl. It stayed that way until last week when the creative little guy participated in some sort of adventure that none of us will ever piece together and broke his leg. Sedat took him to a vet who informed him that a) the cat was too small to do anything for the leg, and b) the cat was a boy. At that moment two very interesting things happened to the cat. A) He was confined to a box to encourage him to stop running, jumping and playing and B) His name was stripped from him.

Well, now I am calling him Houdini, because we have learned that he is quite a determined kitten that will get out of any type of box or cat-crate that we put him in. This guy loves to be out and about. He needs constant interaction and human affection. He also needs adventures. He is absolutely perfect for the hostel setting and several of the guests have fallen in love with him as we have nursed him back to health. Over the past 10 days I have grown to respect Houdini very much. I feel that there is so much that I could learn from him.

1) Determination and trust.

Houdini refused to rest with his broken leg. He kept walking, and jumping off of couches or out of boxes. For those of us trying to get him to rest his leg it was terrifying, but he was not about to give up using his broken leg. He exhausted himself as much as possible and then found a lap or couch to curl up in and slept completely, peacefully. When he woke up he was at it again. It did not matter that his leg was broken, and it did not matter that we were trying to get him to rest. He was determined to live his quality of life the way that he had always known. In the end this exercise actually worked and now he is barely limping, and able to safely jump up and down! (Only 10 days after the vet said that there was a good possibility that his leg would be paralyzed for his life.) I wonder if it did any good to try and stop him. Animals know their bodies and the healing process a lot more thoroughly than humans do. Perhaps the next time I am faced with that much insistance I will just trust the animal to heal itself to the extent that it can, and take that as the fate of the animal.

2) Friendliness and affection.

Houdini is a cuddle-slut. He will come to anyone, look up with those kittenish eyes, open that tiny kittenish mouth, and insist to be picked up and petted. I have not seen anyone with the power to resist him yet. He states his needs both vocally and physically. It is very obvious when he wants to be petted and when he wants to be fed, and when he wants let out. I think that is a trait that people are happy to embrace: stating your needs in an unobtrusive, yet firm and clear way. It is funny that I learn this from a creature that can not even speak.

3) Rest.

When Houdini needs to rest he really rests. He passes out, completely unaware of the world, and goes deep within himself. He stretches and curls his body and really seems to be enjoying his life. If he chooses your lap to rest on then you get a contented purr running over your thighs and you know that he is one happy kitty.

So, I think of all the strays that I have come across in this hostel, Houdini is by far my favorite. Unfortunately I am in no position to adopt a kitten at the moment, but hopefully I get to stay his friend for many months.

Stress takes its toll:

I remember completing a questionnaire about life-stressors that I have faced sometime during my early college years. The idea was to recognize that stress can be positive or negative, that its effects are cumulative, and to give us healthy coping habits. I remember some of the items on the list being: move to a new location, get a new house, change professions, go back to school etc. As my twenties have progressed I have found it quite unbelievable that I am even alive, let alone (for the most part) happy in my life as I have these (what they consider major stressors) at least every two years. In fact, my most stable, least stressful time has been the peace corps, because I knew that I would be staying there for two and a half years, and all of my basic needs were handled for me. Now I am thrown back into the exciting world of dealing with bureaucracy without an advocate, searching for apartments, and learning a new city without a support network (although, I do have 1 wonderful pillar of support hanging out with me).  Reading the posts from the other volunteers in my group it is obvious that they are going through the same thing back in the states- finding homes, finding cars, finding loves, reuniting with friends. Ending peace corps is just as stressful as that first move from the protection the parental home.

I am overwhelmed with Istanbul. I noticed this last night when I had stress dreams- the ones that you can't even remember but the emotion of it sticks with you. I woke up babbling nonsense to the boy, and with a strange, firm new feeling stuck in me. I HOPE that it is just a stress dream. I don't want those feelings.

So, yeah, it is stressful. My life has been nothing but a run through as much stress as I can locate since age 17. However, I am happy, and I am surviving and the world is beautiful out here on the edge. 

I had forgotten...

I had forgotten that love could feel like this: this warm, this exciting.

When he got off the tram yesterday I saw him looking for me. Instantly I melted. No, beyond melting, I exploded. It was a complete dump of serotonin, and I knew that I was in for a joyous little night. A little pocket of happiness broke open and began to sprinkle out into my brain. In the beginning, the moments that it took him to see me, and to smile, and to walk across the street and greet me, my nerves grew excited- sensing more. The warm night air was better, the bosphorous was closer. He held me in his arms and I could barely locate words. My mouth felt cottony around the ones I could find, so they were better left unsaid. Mouths are better used for a different type of communication in those situations. He kissed me; warm and soft and playful and all the things that a reunion kiss should be. I felt drunk. Between the lights, the thudding bass of iskatel street, the tasty smoke of the nargile, and the boy wrapped comfortably around me I had lost my sobriety. Maybe it is somewhere on the street, still being trampled by the light feet of lovers and tourists, but I feel no need to return and search for it.

We fell asleep, exhausted but together. In the morning I woke up with the slightest of headaches, making it difficult to leave the bed that we had shared. Nothing feels better than that, except having no reason to leave bed.

I had forgotten how overwhelming and enticing love can be. I had finally forgotten how addictive it is, making you crave more until you just can't handle it. I had forgotten how it feels to trust this deeply and be so amazed. Or perhaps I never forgot- perhaps I never even knew. 

Why I don't REALLY miss Burning Man...

This is an interesting article that I stumbled upon about bringing your Burning Man experience into your real life.

Do I miss being in the States? People ask me this all the time, and I honestly tell them that I miss some things: I miss the desert. Arizona is incomparably beautiful and I am saddened the further away from it that I get(distance is not always measured in miles, but a combination of time and the chance of return). I also miss the communities that I was a part of, mainly, my outdoor community (SCC et al) and my Bay Area Community (Burning Man and RWB- even though not all of these people are located in or around SF, I still mentally locate them there). So, yes, there are definitely things that I miss.

HOWEVER, one of the things that I do not really miss anymore is Burning Man itself, and the minor treats that are associated with it. This is because I have pulled my real life into that creative space. I began to do that years before I even went to Burning Man, but when I started going to Burning Man I got a little swept up into the cultishness of the place. I had never been around so many people who thought like me, and who I felt free to play with. I had never felt so at home. Eventually I began to believe a very dangerous mistruth: that the place was special, and the community was special. No, that is not exactly how I want to word that, because they were special. There was a magical resonance that vibrated between us for many years. They are little-prince-rose special. But they are not special in the way that no one else, and no place else, has the potential to be like them. Burning Man was a great idea, but it is just that; an idea. It is not meant to be confined to the playa, year after year. It is meant to live, and breathe and grow. This means taking a piece of the idea home with you, and implementing it into your everyday life.

This was something that I touched on after my bike trip at the beginning of the month. I realized that the entire world is like a giant playa. We are constantly wandering around, and if you choose, you can make it your goal to find the best parts of humanity, and the most intriguing art. You can go and play. Every city, although not temporary, deserves to be lived in and played with. I think that many people take their cities too seriously. I know that once I have lived in a place for awhile, I do. However, being in a new place, and a place as large and complicated as Istanbul, one cannot help but see that the world isn't nearly as serious as society has lead us to believe. Strangers are not as scary as our parents told us that they were. They are here for us to interact with and live with. Otherwise, what is the point to life?

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning I decided to go to church. Of course, I don't really go to church as I don't practice a religion, but I decided that I needed some private time to concentrate on my insides. So I went down to the waterside with my guitar and a book, and I spent all morning in the gentle sunshine and wind, playing guitar. It was the most pleasant morning that I have had for some time. People came and sat close to me for a song or two, then meandered on, never actually interrupting me. Then I finished reading, "Invisible Cities" by Calvino, which is overly appropriate for starting as exploration of a city as multi-faceted as Istanbul. For awhile I watched the spray from the waves made by ferries crash against the docks, and then I watched the people around me: young couples, old women with and without dogs, with and without roses, young men, old men, boys selling nuts. No one had anywhere to be or anything to do. I loved it.

But the thing about this park that struck me as most queer is the variety of trees: pine, palm, birch, oak, and others that I cannot recognize, all in the same park- growing in clumps together. It is like the diversity of this city cannot be stopped from even permeating the flora. 

Whatsoever

Doubt

Doubt creeps in through the cracks. Doubt creeps in through the moments of silence. I wanted this post to be about boys, and about loves, but from the first keystroke it has swollen; it expands and becomes general. Generally, doubt creeps in. Doubt in myself. Doubt in the world. Sometimes I have doubt in the perpetual motion of this ever-expanding universe. I guess that the creeping, sneakiness of doubt is fair, because faith creeps in on the same silent paws. The thing is that no one ever exudes the stealth of faith. But it is there, side by side with it's counterpart, practicing the fine art of surprise. Faith creeps in. It creeps in through the cracks, and the dark, silent nights. Faith is borne in the shininess of the moon, and the bright streak of a falling star. Doubt is the scar that the star left behind. Doubt is in the memories; the bright burns behind closed eyelids that you cannot quite touch. Faith is in the future; it lives on the tongue and in the toes. Doubt is a dark, still place deep inside that I am afraid to feel around in for the chance that I will become lost in it. Faith vibrates around the body like a seaside breeze, raising the hairs.

Doubt and faith are smoke and spirits. They have no power. They cannot touch you. They can not strangle you, and can not save you. But we give them power. We let them guide us, pulling us along like docile, harnessed ponies. We bow to them. Faith and doubt. We compose ourselves of them. Faith and doubt, desire and fear. They build. They grow and multiply until everything is significant and solid.

Sometimes I just want to exhale, just for a moment, and unwrap all of these layers of possibility and live just in the now, and feel just the here. No past, no future, no inside, and no outside.

Just breathe. 

Arrival

It is never the way that you imagined it, so I never bothered to imagine it at all. Imagination can be useless in these situations. You imagine arriving in the city the way that you first did, with the sun peaking red and the minarets piercing the dawn. You imagine a city brimming with hope, potential and possibility. And what good does the imagination do when you arrive and actually the clouds are bursting up, and the dawn is a watery gray, and still there is hope and possibility but of a completely different, unfamiliar nature? Reality sometimes sits too close to the imagination, and they create a creaking dissonance that is better not experienced. Sometimes it is better to go in blind.

And so I went in blind.

I came here without a real idea of what it would be like. I forgot the vastness of this city. I forgot the men on the streets, with dark, piercing eyes and mischievous smiles. I forgot the sights and smells and sounds. I forgot how it crushes and suffocates, and on the other hand how you feel like you are flying. I forgot it all and I experienced something altogether new. I experienced a vast city, with men on the streets with piercing eyes and mischievous smiles. I experienced new sights and smells and sounds. I experienced an altogether crushing, and suffocating and yet uplifting sensation. It was a great arrival.

The only thing disappointing was that I somehow got into my head that I was special. I fell in love with this place, and so I up and decided to live here, and I thought my idea was unique. Landing in a hostel FILLED with erasmus students is a little disheartening. I see so many people had the same inkling, and I am mirrored. I never like mirrors because they are so very distorted. I am nothing like them. Nothing :)