GOREME MUSINGS

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. Ahhhh...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.

CALLING ON HEAVEN

Friday, May 25th, Davit Gareja Monastery, Udabno, Georgia A green lunar landscape ushers us into Georgia's holiest monastic site. Black-robed monks stroll about the 5th century courtyard; hot, blinding sun. Frescoed chapel causes a sharp intake of breath: silence prevails. Golden icons illuminate our faces and reflects beliefs; who cannot leave a calling card for God in this drawing room?

CHA CHA

May 27th Still Georgia... Birds sing through the night. A day of inhibitions let loose by a a drink called chacha. I'm very American; unfamiliar with the British penchant of exhibition-quality social binge drinking. Embarrassed and fascinated, cringing at a winery when noise and behavior bounded out of my comfort zone. I left the revel, which morphed into a disco truck and later in the evening a mini-bacchanal, and walked through the small village. I visited a new born baby calf and rode the bicycle of a very handsome young boy. A woman with startlingly sapphire eyes and few teeth displayed her gardening grace; the mosaic of plants, herbs and vegetables rivaled any museum landscape painting. Today's news was that we would not be allowed to travel to Tibet because of a change in rules. One needs at least four of the same nationals to get a travel permit and I am the only American, with two Canadians, one Australian and one Dane being told we are being dumped for two weeks while the Brits cruise drunkenly on. I'm not too bummed-out or worried..travel always involves contingencies. Man plans and God laughs. Bedtime.

SEA FEVER

Dream state: Bus ride to Samarkand, Uzbekistan Who am I? Eight weeks float pass; my barge of longings ( good food, gorgeous wines, shared conversation, crisp linen on a bed, clean clothes ) trades for a simple rowboat: quick border crossing and a hot shower. Eyes constantly scan the horizon; particles of light, land and air are inhaled, bombarding my lungs, expanding my brain, filling every cell. Growing larger in the world; the desert lodges in my hair, sun colors my skin. The Caspian Sea lulls patience in my soul, Turkmenistan etches a tiny, new line of fear across my brow. Boastful Azerbaijan, home of twenty cents a liter gas and Eurovision pride, weighs in as a ton of feathers, a heavy burden to shoulder, yet blowing away in the slightest breeze; empty hands hang low. Uzbekistan decides my tongue has travelled widely; previous language impairments give way to fluency and an ability to fit any country I am given. I become French from East Africa, Russian is tossed in my mouth; have I been educated there? The "Nyet" spurted back does nothing to stop the flow of conversation. I smile as older women compare their skin with mine, asking me my age, my status, deciding I'm from some other Muslim country where Uzbeki is standardly spoken. Speaking in English does nothing to dispel this notion from either them or me. You would not recognize me. Whether witch or bewitched; my form has changed, a new mold made. Bountiful and inflammatory riches of my heart: family, loves, friends, are the fire for casting to be done either tomorrow or yesterday. Are these dusty alleyways sprinkled with dark cool courtyards, rising from my pillow or from a walking sleep? Stretching endless sands, mirage or oasis, shimmering in unfamiliar dry heat? Do I dream by day or night?

BISHKET, KYRGYZSTAN

Cultural Revelations My beliefs shattered of who is a Muslim. Watching families, different clans, clothing ranging from Western to tribal costumes, play in splaying fountains. Suddenly noticing how many Asiatic women, in this secular state, are covered. The call to prayer, having disappeared in the former Soviet-stans, returns, softly wafting over us in our steppe campsite. A scratchy recording; like sunflowers we turn east towards the voice of Mecca. I promised an update describing my trip mates. Time twists initial perceptions, small mercies and generosities bade forgiveness. Here goes: Betrayed loving heart, cruelly deflated, fills with heavy fury. Heated declarations can't raise thud-thudding along the ground. Needs open space to get up again. The " I am worthy moment " blinds bystanders. Dilated pupils see the magic, not the method. So much natural power, how to direct it? It's hard to concede that glory has an expiration date. Protect or isolate? Loving arms may squeeze life from you or dislodge a bit too big to swallow. How can you tell the difference? Just happy being chosen and asking no more than that. Old hippy trail stuff just isn't making it anymore; so what to do? Tantalize baby with a thinly strung mobile. The thin man is fat on substance, listen quietly between courses; generous proportions. Never wanting to be more than ordinary; wishes wrapped in regrets come true. Beautiful without guise; happy in the world. Emotion coated with pained laugher, true feelings are rendered indistinguishable. Running away from the past, following old footprints into the future. Lots of tears are coming. Steady and stand fast, earnest and fair. Judging others against her standards mean we all fall a bit short. Third eyed mystical lovely soul; radiates joy. Soooooooo British, in a good way. Redeeming features: dogged determination and a stunningly vulgar vocabulary. His insights, built on a superior education, aren't flaunted but handed round to anyone listening carefully. A ghostly hand, a shadow. Mean little man, always hiding; the rabble voice in the crowd, the brick thrown in the night. Stillness is a magnet for life; a quiet attraction. Boys to men in his own good time. Blind guide dog.

FAITH

A shadow attached to our plodding feet, faith under bright morning sun, precedes first, laying the way through our crowded existence, providing a shaded oasis for dreams and ambitions. In moonlight, the trailing night self, carries a lantern of hope; vanquishes despair, illuminating the dark, littered paths we've trod. Faith is opening a hand to give half when there is no assurance of tomorrow's whole. It is the entwined clasp, soft with fellowship, firm

Monsoon in Laos

I can't blame the weather for my lack of postings...it's the Chinese government. Everything was blocked...so I'll try to catch up. JUNE POST The rain rivals caged crickets cries. We are in E something China and the dampness of clothes carries no soggy weight on charmed spirits. Laughing at myself in the bathroom mirror; I can't recognize the stranger who laughs back at me: un-groomed brows, dry-racked face, skinny, skinny skinny. My wide smile erases tropical moist heat, topples lithe, slithering mosquitoes, fighting sandalwood incense and outrageous carvings for my mind's grey blood. Reality visions, walking again on ceilings, wisps of feathers stuck on my back, tickling my spine. What did I do to deserve so much? Learning to pray, lighting candles: may the mantle of age generously clothe me and my friends as we wander from oasis to oasis in desert lands. Having always been explorers, we eat from proffered plates, asking no questions, licking clean the hosts' store, offering a smile, sometimes a tale. No notice of their slack bellies or baby soft stomach mews. Our tribe believed our hopes, aspirations, could propel, transform us all, together, into people who could fly, without sacrifice, without touching the sun. Our beliefs were very, very, wrong. Wishes are burdens for others desiring release; I seek eternity. While they thirst, I long for briny oceans,. Sweet, salt, fire, water; a satisfying palette. I feel every toe. My hair strands and weaves a song. Life is a privilege.