Atlas

And then the sky fell.
Not with a thud, rip or thunder, but slowly, with deafening silence, black clouds caving in.
God watching from above like a desert traveller watching an ant lion’s trap.
Slowly, giving us time to understand that the sky is falling on our heads.
We. All but me. Who refused to believe and understand.

My feet in the ground, my head pushing up hard against the sky.
My head high, holding it up with all my strength, my hands pressed on my ears to block out the noise.

Sometimes, at night, when not all of them are screaming together, I am trying to recognise the words among the collective shrieking.
Almost as if catching a name of a station through a blur of lights from a speeding train.
I can almost hear the words themselves and then they’re gone, brushed passed the fine hair on the back of my neck, lost in the sea of languages, shrieking.

And then one night, when half the world took a breath, I heard the other half.
Loud and clear.
Let go.

Two worlds

I arrived into another world. Passing through a busy market place, dust at my barren feet.
Animal hides hanging everywhere for sale, their colour mixing with the colour of the sand and the sun.

When I met him, he smiled at me, with warmth and just a dash of lust and said my body is perfect.
Just as I started to feel that same smile spreading from inside of me to my lips, he explained:
“Perfect. For a death mask”. I didn’t know things are so different in this world.
I didn’t know a woman’s death is glory. The Great Leader chose with regularity one with a perfect body to be sacrificed. Women, dried to parchment, their skins spread like animal hides, each framed into a horrifying picture. There was hierarchy too, the closer the picture to the Great Leader, the more valuable.

He promised to value me low, so my dried death mask gets tossed away and he can keep me. This way, we would stay together forever. He would sit below my painting, below me and sip his drink. He said, with the same smile. I tried to explain that I’d love that very much, if only I could be alive. I’d love for us to be together forever, but I can only enjoy it if I am alive.
He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand why I don’t want to die now in order to be with him forever.

I don’t know how I got back to my world, all I know that now, years later I saw him again. I was passing through the market place, holding the tiny hands of my children. I caught his eye and he gave me a forgiving smile. He still didn’t understand, but he no longer wanted to take me back to that horrible world, where life must be exchanged for eternal love. What a horrible bargain. I hate market places.


Ok, I know this was very weird, but it was a dream and I had to get it out of my head. and my life. ugh.

ER Istanbul

...the hospital doors flung open, Decline being rushed into the busy ER on a stretcher carried by two Turkish paramedics, gasping for air, twisting in agony:
"Quick! It's another kebab overdose!"
They hooked her on intravenous diet Coke immediately.
"Give her 20 mg of mash!" "Wait, she might be allergic to it!"
" Try to neutralise the kebab with 100 mg of lager instead! "
" we're losing her, hurry!"
___________________________beeep____________________
another kebab victim... sigh, sigh...

Can I have a menu please?

excerpts from a Romanian menu, in a posh restaurant in Bucharest:

'Fried pressed cheese served with cheese'

'Polenta with butter, sweet cheese, salty cheese, cream and a fried egg'

I won't even comment these two. Knock yourself out.

excerpts from a Georgian menu in an expat restaurant in Tbilisi:

'Muzhuzhi' (errr, no idea, but it was written in three different alphabets).

'Soaked piglet' (this one almost made me cry, since I got a mental picture of Piglet from Winnie-the-Pooh arriving at our table, soaking wet and asking in a trembling voice: 'did you order me?')

'Chicken on spit' (yes, that's how I like it. It will still taste like chicken...)

I've got more, but then again, picking on Eastern European food is just like picking on Bush's intelligence (or lack of)... dead easy.

Negotiations

I have negotiated half my life for the other half.
I’ve negotiated graces, big and small
I’ve negotiated spaces on dirt roads between two cars,
between a lazy cow and death.

I have negotiated passages into countries yet to come into existence
and I have negotiated checkpoint Charlies yet to grow a beard.

I have negotiated imperfect grammar for perfect understanding
and I have negotiated languages in seven tongues.
Yet, I have not negotiated a tongue, or a lip.

I have negotiated curfews and freedoms
Values and ideas and ideals.
And I have negotiated wooden souvenirs.

Non-negotiable, yet unconditional.
Non-negotiable, he said.
I have not negotiated love.

Yes Sir, I can boogie

All night long.

Dear Secret Service Person

Dear KGB/Stasi/StB/whatever agency person,

I just wanted to say that if you still think me or my family pose a threat to any system or regime and you feel the need to record information about me, or follow any of my family members, tough shit, we got nothing. We're useless to you.

Ok, by now I crossed over to weirdoland (I've actually heard now Pod say 'Oh, no, you were born in weirdoland! You are weirdoland's president!'), so let me explain.

I watched Lives of Others (Das Leben der Anderen) and it got me thinking...duh. As some of you may know, I grew up in a Communist country. No, not Italy, you pseudo-commies! :) Czechoslovakia. Which still wasn't spying on its people on the same scale as East Germany (well, they did a trial run and it worked for them, who knew?), but nevertheless, you knew when you're outside the 'circle of trust'. My family, along with other Jews, knew that since 1952-the Slansky trial ( fantastically documented by the 1970 Costa Gavras movie L'Aveu- and yes, yes, we love Yves Montand! ), Jews were largely out of the circle of trust, unless they wanted to be part of a congregation, in which case they had to collaborate with the Party and the minimum sign a piece of paper, or actually asked to be spies.

As the archives opened after 1989, there was a rush to see who was with, who was against, who is who. Surely enough, my step grandpa's name was on the list, but according to my Dad, he had to sign something, otherwise they wouldn't let him out of a GULAG. I say, sure, what the hell, after being a miner for 12 years in Siberia I'd also sign anything.

The archives have been put on the internet. You can see a scanned page with names and dates of birth and a 'status'. My dad is listed as a 'suspicious person', code name GOLD. in english. Gold? Ok, my dad does have a fairly big nose, but he is not that hairy and has blue eyes. Still, can we be stereotypical and faithful Communists? yes! Ok, then, let's go for it!

After watching Lives of Others, a friend of mine asked me if I have a file with the StB, which was the Czechoslovak equivalent of the Stasi or the KGB. I said no, but then I thought about it and went back to the online archive. No, I don't. Children were not a liability to the system, unless you lived in East Germany, where kids in kindergartens were trained how to spy (suddenly Spy Kids gets a whole new meaning...)
The same friend then said that I might not have a file in any of the former Eastern bloc contry, but having the passports that I do, speaking the languages that I do, and having worked in human rights issues that I did, he bets his English arse that I probably have a file with the CIA, the Shin Bet and who knows who else.

Bottom line: I don't care. As I said. I got nothing. I'm only suspicious to ignorant xenophobes or to people who never left their own country/village. Does my cosmopolitan identity (note: this a term I chose over equal opportunities slut and a global alcoholic) make me suspicious? Nope. So, one message: please get over yourselves. The rest of the world is not interested in secret stuff. Unless all of you look like James Bond and act like James Bond. No? Didn't think so. Ok then, leave us alone, go, play some secret games, without bothering ordinary people!