The Question

I’ve travelled half the world to ask a question.
Half of it my testimony to failure, my confession.
And when I arrive, I freeze.

You, sitting there, in dark rimmed glasses,
Me, standing in the door, like a child skipping classes.

Gathering strength to speak those words
But they’re fickle like tiny little birds

And when I finally cannot bear the tension,
I whisper... Can I have a no cost extension?

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.