Heimat

Wednesday, May 16th I've lost track of the days. Our group's voice is an acappella chorus; weaving ideas, concepts and visions into one song of longing. Georgia makes me want to cry. Expansive vistas, narrow lives. Impoverished emotions tamped down by bleak villages and towns; shielding flashes of a gold-flecked smile a labor worn hand. Here men sit scanning the distance, Women weed and knit, eking small reward from visitors who may purchase goods for less in their rich homelands. I sing of The Black Sea: eating small fish on the shore, feeling barbs of envy and incomprehension at our luxury of choice. A caged brown bear languishes in an the amusement park; we eat lunch of homemade fries and pork fillets watching entwined lovers: in the woods, on benches, pressing tops of fading cars. Far from heimat, similar to my chosen home. The sun is always shining somewhere. Best to all, Cher

Gori

fWednesday, May 16th Small,very sad town in Georgiam The Stalin museum, a revisionist historical site, attracts 25,000 visitors to Gori each year. There is no monument commemorating 400,000 murdered souls; necessary carnage providing nickel-plated bathroom fixtures for a luxurious railroad carriage. No tracks; loves, shoe size, a smell of bread in the kitchen, love on the sheets, are left. All gone for a man's belief; a handsome, almost priest, charismatic revolutionary, wielding a blinding bright future to those struggling out of a dark fecund past. Olga, our guide, transported me back to Czechosylvakia; impossible to reconcile collaboration: standing fast to grey moral beliefs for the story Brave untrue tales masking the sadness in of our hearts; why don't we ever choose the right door? The leader? Rocking horse winner; riding hard to insure a future never within reach. Time, Ozymandias, sand, sand, and more sand, glistening silica; polishing hopes and mirroring desires. A looking glass tells truth solely to the viewer. Hope necessitates massive renovation to vascular and aortal chambers. Blue and red drapes every battlefield; strange comforts: inflated glory.

Turkey

Thursday, May 10th Macka, Turkey, Day 26 Started with a 9am trip to Sumela monastery, a 5th century, cliff-hanging, out of Indiana Jones. Forty-five minutes felt like five hours; steep steps coursed series of mist-producing waterfalls, springing from ancient forests. Arrival was mystical, turning the last curve and spewing a whispered curse for not hiring a minibus, the reward, an involuntary "Ahhhhh!" Turkey surprised me. The Turkey I saw as a tourist and Turkey as an Overlander are different. People's warmth, generosity, and curiosity is genuine. My skin color is an infinite source of delight to everyone from small children to grannies, who mobbed me in a small market town, jostling to have their pictures taken with me. School girls want to practice English and ask me whether I like their country. I've been called beautiful Egypt and lovely Africa. I love getting to a town; we all scatter to follow individual interests. I needed to get on WIFI, but the village's Internet cafe had only wired connections. Stopping in the only cellphone store, the owner gave me his passcode and sent a young boy out to get me coffee. He refused any payment for my hour of sitting comfortably and happily in his shop. His request as I left the shop, was a question: Had I been to Central Park? There is work everywhere; the infrastructure, beautiful schools in even the smallest towns, populated by uniformed students: girls are especially gregarious and I've been surprised and estimate, the small percentage of those who are covered, in middle school uniforms, at less than 10%. Housing is smallish apartment blocks with terraces; it's as though a master plan has been thought out for the country. Political views aside, I'm impressed by a country educating and housing it's populace, as opposed to my country, which I dearly love and it's continued neglect of the need for educated, well-fed and housed, future leaders. There is a price for freedom, lacking a ceiling or a floor. Turkish toilets will be elaborated on with my next missive. Now, time for a cold beer, next to our roaring river which competes with the call to prayer. Peace out.

ODYSSEY TALES

Sunday, May 8, 2012 Sitting in the truck, after waking to a glorious day; blue skies filled with dozens of hot air balloons, sharing a proffered cup of coffee, appreciating a long hot shower, my sole companion acapella Sunday singing. Breakfast cook group smoothly rolls into action; latecomers volunteer to clean-up. Brilliant sun and I decide it's a great day to do laundry and read. Nassir, the owner, shows me how to operate the devil's device they call a washing machine in Europe...now the Asian version of an evil spirit..almost 90 minutes of tortured clothing. Moving my chair, imitating girasolles at home, every view from the terrace, issues squeals of delight. Different grouping drift into town or to roam the hills, a cucumber and tomato sandwich satiates hunger; I second read and slowly masticate, swallow each vowel. My brain swells with pleasure; books a not so secret erotica. The Group: Baby girl with an innocent beauty; the Victorians would have demanded early tubercular death. Alpha gathering followers but tired of wearing the mantle. Soft whisperer frightened by a deep well. Thirst is a very private matter. A lost Sacajewa blustering; a path paved with strained laughter and a keen discerning eye. Jovial service while managing to withhold critical elements: connection and concern. The mirror only reflects one face. Keenly holding on to love while praying the scales will balance. A rare earth spirit facing a chasm of change: wise enough to know it's impossible to protect those we love, only to continue to love them in any form. Comprehending the earth is moving, shifting changing, beneath his feet. After a life of control, staring complacently, and then with terror at the shadowed holes of the future. Enigma, a shell of humor, life as a shadow. Coming in out of the cold, finding great warmth in the setting sun. Sure of love; her laugh fills him and presents her great satisfaction. Swift told many tales, advantageous size gets hammered down; the journey ahead is hidden; not anticipated. The milk-maid, county beauty, sensing there's more than cows and brawny boys. Inoculated since birth on her lesser worth and evils of Metropolis: stuck between longing and loss. Administrative cog with enough wobble; realization of safety and security. Stays in the square, peeking over the hedges, wondering why strange people are laughing. I'm wondering whether this maze has the right hand on the wall. Beauty in a man is dangerous. It leads to women living on your smiles and men turning their backs to you. A taut suspension. Ahhhhhh...if perception and wit was a bank, a billionaire in our midst. A true Beauty masquerading as The Beast. Hippie, privileged and dreaming of future conquests: land, sea and lair. Flirtatious solely in existence; twirling her bag at borders. Capable and direct. A burr and a thistle; prickly sensible life plans. Will the thorny Plantagenet rose pierce the sheep, exposing soft skin underneath? Time won't treat him kindly. Peter Pan eventually becomes a Darling. So I bid you good night and wishing for sweet dreams tonight and good fortune in the morning.

Crossing

MAY 1 Crossed the Turkish border from Greece while reading " The Appointment " by Herta Mueller, Romanian writer and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. " It's easier if you're the one going out, if you're the one taking your fear away and leaving your fortune at home, and if there's someone waiting for you to come back. Sitting at home waiting, stretches time to the brink and tightens fear to the point of snapping.