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.