The Different Color of 2011

Young men and women protested, got beaten, dragged on the asphalt and some lost their lives for a noble cause. Their will and determination were never broken though. Hundreds of brave names more than our little minds can remember or bear to remember.

They brushed 2011 with a different color. A very different and bright color, regardless how the background of the picture is/was dim, unfair and ugly. We owe them everything and they owe nobody nothing, and no amount of talk or eloquence can do them justice.

Ahmed Harara,

Words stand ashamed if I try to express our gratitude, appreciation and admiration. A hero at the moment when the faith in heroes was almost lost.

Dream (December,16 2011)

The place looked like my parents’ old house but more spacious. Members of family and guests sat and chatted together when I noticed that my close friend’s estranged wife was there. I wondered how she dared to come and who invited her. A new guest walked up the stairs and she rushed to meet him to find out later that he was not the person she expected. The new guest was a young man in his early thirties, white skinned, short haired and tall. Moments later another guest arrived and it was whom the estranged wife expected. He was in his late thirties with long black hair, and wearing a t-shirt revealing his tattooed arms. I said to myself he was not the type I expected him to be. The tattooed man was followed by an elegant blonde young woman. He, she and the estranged wife talked together and the latter seemed quite happy talking to the guy. Then I noticed she also had a tattoo and I thought maybe she tried to match up to him.

Someday Crossed My Path

A tall thin guy with a long Ron Wood-like hairstyle looked me in the eyes and asked "This is class 1, isn’t it". I said "Yes". "And you are in it, right?" I said "Yes". He got his back bag off and placed it on the desk and sat down a bit far from me. My friend sitting on my left side whispered "***k". I asked "Why? What is wrong?". "Why have you answered him that politely? He is mocking you. He knows it is class 1 and just wanted to play around". I said "I did not see it like that". But then in a second thought I did not exclude that the tall guy, known later as H, decided I looked mockable enough to act the way my friend explained. We were in the very first days of our freshman year in the university.

Along the university years nothing linked H and I together. We were in two different groups of friends. It was later and during the first stage of the military service that we found each other within the same circle of conscripts who felt the need to get together in the new military environment. In a strange world, thin similarities overshadowed differences.

Cynicism and sarcasm were quite felt in H’s character. The bony white face, that resembled a mummy, was not strange to the cold attitudes he sometimes took in different situations. His character’s other features included solid disbelief in god, hate for his country, a definite desire to migrate to the USA, and taking calculated sharp reactions. I could see him, in a cinematic scene, walking the street, getting out a knife from his pocket, stabbing an enemy while cursing in a low voice, calmly hiding the knife back, spitting on the ground and then walking away.

In that incident when we were first stopped by the guard, H seized an opportunity in a nanosecond to just walk away before the guard realized his disappearance. He risked being arrested for running away without much thought. Ironically the guard later feared of being questioned for H’s disappearance and preferred not to mention it during the investigation.

Last thing I heard about him was that he inherited a good size of fortune after his father’s death, and got married to a nightclub singer, which came a little bit unexpected given his conservative family background. But did he leave for the States as he adamantly wanted? I did not know and I did not seek seriously to know, but he remained one of the persons who crossed my path someday and reserved a place in the memory.

When It Comes....

* My sister looks and sounds more and more like our late mother. I have been told lately that I look now more like my father. A sign of growing old as Marquez put it.

* 2o11 was splendid. Unrest reigned in the three overlapping personal, professional and national circles.

* Sometimes I feel nostalgic to my old blog. The supposed persona behind it was different, popularity was higher and language was native. I gunned it down 3 years ago but kept the body in the morgue. Every few months I feel like reading the old posts which seem to me now as if they were written by someone else. Surprisingly new comments were still posted until last week.

* Heavy winter clothes fill my cupboard. I like the elegance of winter clothes whose different pieces allow matching colors and styles, unlike my summer clothes which are usually reduced to a t-shirt and jeans.

* I wrote a comment in some blog lately and found out it was deleted by the blogger. This happened before in another blog. It is strange that some bloggers, who seem or pretend to be broad-minded and cool, get hurt by a polite harmless different point of view or offended by an unfunny comment (mistaken by its writer for being funny though!).

* Courteous, shy, soft-spoken, quiet and level-headed. He does not fake any of these qualities. He is also blessed with easy-to-the-eye face features that pack the deal. What do very few close people know though is that he is also alcoholic and regular cheater. Those who happen to find out the other side of his character, get obviously shocked. Even I, despite our long history of friendship, still get intrigued by the sharp contrast between the mister and the doctor in his character. Interesting that he is mainly and severely judged by the others for the misconception people have about him more than anything else.

Saffron-Stained Tablecloth

We almost said it. No, we did not really say it because the waiter interrupted the moment inquiring "chicken?” We both said "Here". He then put the pasta in front of me. A ghost of awkward silence sat with us at the table, but we tried to ignore him by resorting to the food. "Delicious?" I was asked. "Yes, and your chicken?” In a nice gesture, a piece of chicken was placed in my plate for a taste, but during the journey a drop of the saffron sauce fell on the white tablecloth in the space between our two plates.


Very few tables were occupied. Vague rumble came from far off. "Are there demonstrations today?”. I nodded. Although the question was clearly meant to only fill the gap of silence, my mind could not resist picturing the sweaty human bodies' wall in the misty square. I felt an imprisoned butterfly flapping in my stomach.


By then it was apparent that every attempt to avoid reaching the moment that we felt bound to go to, was useless. I let a sigh out. The saffron stain attracted my attention again. It looked like the sun in children paintings. Round, yellow, flat and lifeless.



I finally said "Well, we have to admit we can not get around it anymore, don't you think?” Few seconds passed without a reply before I heard "Did you enjoy the meal?" and the dark slim waiter with the wide fake smile started to clear the half-empty dishes off the table.

Thousands of Afternoons Ago III

“And for the meals, they are served at the hospital cafeteria. Here are the free coupons. You can catch dinner tonight before it is closed by 8 o’clock” the lady said.

It was still 5’oclock, so I decided to take a walk before heading for the cafeteria. The streets were quiet and empty. I wondered how I could spend two months in this provincial dead city. The hospital was on a hilly road on the outskirts of the city. I could not spot the exact location and looked around to see if there were any passers by I can ask for help. I continued to walk until I found a chubby middle-aged man. In his fast way of talking I could recognize the words “river”, “footbridge” and “hill”, so I guessed I understood.

The cafeteria hall was spacious and plain. Most diners have had already left. I looked at the plate in my tray with discontent when the dark man sitting in front of me whispered the-end-of-meal pray to himself. A compatriot!
He told me he was a member of a group of school teachers attending a summer training course, and invited me to go with him after dinner to see the whole group.

In the large Spanish garden of the hotel the teachers were sitting, chatting, laughing and drinking tea. Men and women from different backgrounds. They made a lot of noise like pupils in their playtime. I thought how disturbed the rest of the residents must have been.

Two teachers entered the garden running after each other and laughing. It turned out that he snatched something from her and she was trying to get it back. It was very clear that she seized every opportunity, under any excuse, to touch the guy’s body. Chest, shoulders, back, neck. They finally joined the sitting group for awhile before the woman left. Someone hinted at her forcing touches and the others laughed. It was mentioned that the guy was in his late 20s and she was early 40s. I could not believe it because I would have easily assumed the opposite.

It got finally dark after the long summer day and some of the teachers started to retire to their rooms. I bid them farewell promising to pay another visit.

On my way back I had to walk along the main public park in the city and I could see ghosts of men moving between the trees.

I had the key of the front door of my hotel. A hanging bell rang when I opened it. Lights in the tiny lobby were dim and no one was at the reception. A girl appeared in the hallway to inform me they have changed my room from the third floor to the first floor and added they have already moved my stuff to the new room. She gave me the key and left.
I wondered about my dirty clothes that were piled on the floor of the bathroom and who could have picked them up.

I entered the room, looked around and did not know if I should get upset that they moved my belongings without my knowledge or not. I sat on the edge of the bed without turning the lights on. A big window was sending in rays of light from outside. I suddenly remembered my hometown and my parents, and overwhelming nostalgia, for everything and everyone who was far away, took me over.

But then bit by bit I regained my sense of the moment as I started to overhear unrecognizable voices coming from the adjacent room and a regular escalating sound of bed squeaking.

Late October Breeze

Bonbon Menthe

We met the year Patricia Kaas said about the mint candy’s taste “Ca fait du bien quand il pleut”. It is interesting how it is not infrequent that first impressions differ from the way we, after close encounter, see those who are around us. This is why I always try to alienate my first impressions.

One year later, we had to go back our homes in two different corners of the world. We exchanged letters once or twice before we briefly met again in 1995.

Life took me up and down, different countries became temporary homes of mine, hearts meant the world to me but then disappeared, bodies buried, babies’ first cries were heard, and grey hairs became bolder and bolder.

Last week, a stranger knocked on my door. She said she was an expatriate and a friend of a friend of my old friend. He was looking for me from his remote colorful country, but he only had my street address. She went to the address and found out that the house was demolished and neighbors did not know my location. She asked again and a daughter of a security guard in a close building gave her another address. She went there and found nothing. She returned back again to the site of the demolished house until someone gave her a right new address. And there she was at my door telling me that my old friend was looking for me.

Heart warming.

Outlived and Remembered

We thought it was fun although we looked a bit odd. Two males and the others were females. In our late 20s and they were barely adults. Foreigners but the girls were nationals. Besides, each one held an umbrella, but we both held one umbrella. We took our places in the queue though. Rain and curious looks did not want to stop.

I wondered few times before about those men and women who sat individually, in silence, on chairs in the empty streets of downtown at night. A small table was usually set in front of him/her on which a lonely lamp sent out a weak light. I could not understand then what they were supposed to do.

I was with my friend standing in line next to the one who seemed, judging by the long queue, the most popular. We also choose him because of the bilingual sign set on his table.

The shops were closed and the street did not have restaurants or cafes, so everything was dead.

The line moved slowly and when we became the first in line there was some distance, effective enough to keep the revealing stream of the unknown unheard, separating us from the forty something man with the untidy beard and moustache. I let my friend goes first. Less than 10 minutes later came my turn.

“Did he tell you something?” my friend asked me when we hurried to the subway station. “I am not quite sure” I added “He said when I reach 38 years old, a big change will occur in my life”. “Let us run, I hear the sound of the train coming” he said.

Knack of Existing

“I wanted the knack of existing. I did not know the rules”

These words were said by the main character in Jennifer Dawson's novel The Ha Ha.
I think it is about time to re-read this novel for maybe the fourth or fifth time. Every few years I do, and the novel never failed to have its effect on me or to lessen the compassion I feel for the main character. It s not the same sort of compassion I felt when I, in a tender age, read classics like "Tess" or "Resurrection". It is different. More conscious? Maybe.


Another re-reading I do these days, almost because it reminds me of the old days when I did the first reading, is Emile Zola's "Une page d'Amour". A Parisian bookstore in Boulevard St. Michel had its August knock-off prices taking old classics and used books out on the sidewalk for sale. I found the novel that I once stumbled on in my father's library and read long time ago. I did not know back then it was a part of series of novels.

It might not be the sort of novel I like to read these days anymore, but a classic is a classic ,never dies or loses its charm. I started to re-read it this week and I enjoy it now as I did in the past. Days in that past were simple and joyful. Or maybe this is how every “old days” are remembered.

....

* Norfolk Island Pine is the majestic tree I meant in my Nightstand post.

* First weekend in September was the last weekend of my long summer vacation. I spent the week-end near the sea. Nice weather although there was no trace of that end-of-summer breeze. I love it when the very first discreet chill is felt in the air after a long hot summer.

* I was scammed out of 150 $. The scheme involved calls on my mobile phone claiming they were from the mobile telecom. company. Without undermining my foolishness, the caller really mastered his role. 150$ is no big deal but the feeling itself that I was fooled is warming my heart!

* Last month I met an old friend whom I haven’t seen for almost 11 years. A good sign of any friendship is the lack of even this very thin shadow of reservation that comes naturally with the long absence.

Days of Room 812

Last month and for the first time after many years I revisited the university hostel in which I lived for 2 years when I was a student. The main tree-lined street brought back vivid memories. Everything looked the same as I last laid my eyes on, except a new metro line that was recently constructed in the middle of the street.

Inside the hostel I had the same feeling I used to have whenever I visited my parents’ house after long absence. Everything looked significantly smaller than what was left of it in my memory. At my parents’ house I asked myself why my room looked smaller, the hallway dimmer, the living room less spacious? And in the hostel I also felt that roads between dormitories became narrower, buildings shorter and the green areas more limited.

I never understood why my mind keeps a bigger/brighter-than-reality visual memory of places.

This is different from the visual perception we preserved from childhood of the sizes of objects. When I was a child my parents’ closet looked huge, and my sister and I could easily hide in it. Their king size bed stood like a playground where we rolled over from one edge to another. But as our bodies grew bigger, the closet and the bed grew smaller.

In my visit to the hostel, all memories came up. My tiny but back-then freshly renovated room on the eighth floor, my circle of friends, the up and down states of mood, and the different languages and faces around. Ah… I still can also recall a pale picture of a skinny shy person who once resembled me.

Nightstand

Wallet
It contains money, credit card, ID card and photos of some of whom I love.
It became worn out and I should buy a new one but the intimacy that develops between us and our old exhausted belongings does not fade easily.

Glasses
I hate them. Or precisely I hate how I look when I have to wear them. Contact lenses are more welcomed.

Pic
It was taken about 3 years ago. No major change except the disappearance of the goatee. If we have the right to like self pictures, then I like this one although my side view is not always the most flattering. It was not me who put it under the glass top. My narcissist level is not that high...yet!

Vase
In July I spent a long weekend with a good friend in his Mediterranean waterfront home. Fantastic view. A huge tree in the garden had these stick-like leaves. I collected the fallen dry ones and immediately felt they would look nice in a vase. At the beginning they were holding themselves tight and upward but day after day they started to bend down.

Lamp
I bought it from a friend years ago. He was selling many of his home items before he moved far away. We see each other now once every few years. The last time was around 3 months ago. Reliable, talented and handsome. This is how I would describe him if I am allowed to commit the crime of summing someone up. A big interrogation mark shrouds his private life though. Is it fear of intimacy or lack of having trust in others?

Clock alarm
Divided into two parts. Clock and frame.

And there is a Plug joint that happened to be there when I took the pic.

What this shot of nightstand did not show was the big empty bed, the growling heat of July and my mind busy with the preparation for summer vacation that will start soon. Very soon.

Thousands of Afternoons Ago II

Almost everyone I met in my first days in the school recommended me to see a student called N because she was a compatriot. She seemed, according to what I heard, quite popular among the students.

I was introduced to her later, and we clicked straight away. That was the beginning of a long friendship that lasted many years until we lost track of each other. N was a ball of energy, spontaneity and humor. A shock of black hair surrounded a long face distinguished for its big eyes. Whenever she was asked how she kept her figure slim despite her healthy appetite, she answered “Coffee, cigarettes and a 24 hours working brain”. She could never hide her emotions or their reflections on her face, as if her features were wired up directly to her heart. She just loved this or hated that for no apparent reason and I failed many times to understand the logic. I had eventually to give up understanding, admitting that she was the type of person who was led by her first impressions.

When friends thought what N and I had meant more than friendship, we just laughed and commented “Let them think what they like to think”.

After some time of our friendship, she revealed some tragic past, but frankly I could never know where borders between reality and imagination (if any) began or end in her story. The main storylines remained the same along the years, but I do not know why a cloud of disbelief, or precisely partial disbelief, always hanged over.

N introduced me to her close circle of 5 friends. Two girls and three guys. They were of different nationalities. I could not find the faintest ray of similarity among their characters. Gathering these different persons in one social group was somehow surrealist and fun. Or that what appeared to me.

When I realized that I started to go out regularly with them, and did not mind their divergence, I understood then how this group, in the first place, could get together!

The real fun part was when the students moved later from the small city to join their universities or institutions in Paris where life was much more colorful. Differences between “friends” got clearer. The group rapidly walked to its doomsday, and in a later episode after the doomsday interesting “secrets” got uncovered about hidden relationships, bad mouthing quotes and blushing confessions.

N witnessed the collapse of her group of friends as calmly as humans witness the change of seasons. By that time, she was forming a new group of friends in her university. A little more harmonious. I kept her friendship on a bilateral track only, as my own sphere was evolving gradually and far away. A sphere where faces I saw, characters I dealt with, and circumstances I went under helped to crystallize my ideas about friendship, love, life and above all about myself.

Dream (June, 26 2011)

I carried a child and walked down a hilly road in the countryside. I turned back and saw a tall big man in his 30s wearing a black suit walking behind. He walked faster and passed us, and I noticed then the color of his suit from behind was different. I speeded up going down the hill and passed him. He again walked faster. Every time I saw him his suit changed into a different color. I felt afraid and thought he was not a human but a ghost. I decided to get away from him as far as I could by crossing the road and walking on the other side.

The child, whom I carried, was the son of a friend of mine. He was around 4 or 5 years old. I thought of how appreciative his family must be for the effort I exerted for their son.

I reached a no-car area in the town where barriers were held. I asked a guard about the location of the school. I entered the building and explained that I came to make sure that the child was registered although he would not be able to attend the classes at that day. Nobody seemed interested in what I was saying. The female staff said she was busy and asked me to wait. At last they gave me a number of name cards and asked if the name of the child was included. It was not. They asked me again to wait. I started to shout saying that I must meet the director to complain about their lack of interest and help. The employees were taken by surprise when I shouted but did not react enthusiastically enough to help.

Dream (June, 2 2011)

I was in Japan and it was flooding everywhere. I tried to go somewhere, maybe home, but all the roads were filled with high water. I found a side road where the water only reached my knees, but then it rose again. I got almost drowned and could not breathe. I moved to another direction and there were scattered persons here and there trying to find a safe spot.

I saw a colleague who was also trying to find a dry area. We walked together and everything around us turned into water. Water, water, water. Immense blue water was everywhere. I said to myself what a miserable life those people were leading.

Tide or tsunami withdrew back in some areas and a dry highway appeared with cars moving fast on it. I felt a bit optimistic about going back to my desired destination, but floods came over again. I started to run on a road where, on one side, a cement wall was erected. I saw my colleague again and she, in black and long wet hair, was struggling not to get drowned. Then I saw her talking with someone and it looked as if they found a hole in the wall and tried to go through to reach a dry place. They disappeared and I assumed they went through that hole.

I ran close to the wall searching for the hole, but could not find it because wild grass and plants covered many parts of the wall. I found myself getting into a tunnel-like road and the ceiling was got lower and lower. I felt trapped with no place to go.

.
.
.
Some things that fly there be --
Birds -- Hours -- the Bumblebee --
Of these no Elegy.

Some things that stay there be --
Grief -- Hills -- Eternity --
Nor this behooveth me.

There are that resting, rise.
Can I expound the skies?
How still the Riddle lies!

Emily Dickinson

House, Door and Window

Three pictures I took in 2010.


My old house, which I really miss, had this big window in the living room. Lush Oleander flowers used to passionately kiss the glass in the season.



A house door in the countryside. I liked the violet hearts which were atypical in the house doors in that area.



Lose something, gain another. But do we make the right choice? The window prevented, to some extent, the cruel heat from getting into the room in the old building, but it also kept rays of light away.

NYC, Shoplifting and Sexual Assault

NYC in 1999.
I bought some items from Macy’s on 34th street. Two weeks later while I was preparing my luggage before my departure to where I was living, I found out that the security tag was still attached to one of the items. I was very surprised the detection system did not alert when I passed through the store gate.

I did not know if I paid for the item but the cashier forgot to remove the tag, or by some mistake she did not scan it but put it with the other bought pieces in the bag. I searched for the receipt but could not find it. Actually I was not keen to keep the receipt because I did not expect I would need it.

Until now I panic at the mere idea that I risked being arrested for shoplifting for no apparent fault of mine except for being too lazy to check the items in the receipt before leaving the store.

Eventually I did not go back to the store because I thought going back with a piece of clothe with its security tag and without a receipt would only suggest one scenario, and I did not like that scenario.
……

In a matter of 3 weeks there were two separate incidents in which two prominent banking figures (with different levels of prominence) have been accused of sexually assaulting a chamber maid in hotels in NYC.

I have a story in this regard.

In the early 90s I was in the starting stage of my career and we had a high ranking figure coming on a working visit. As a junior I was not involved in the visit, but I was once assigned to go to the hotel he stayed in and give him some documents he needed. I called him from the lobby and asked what to do with the envelope (It was not recommended to leave it at the front desk). He asked me to go up to his suite. The reputation of this person, whom I have never seen before, was bad and he was known for his arrogant and obnoxious character. He did not seem unpleasant when I met him though. I was standing in the living room and he asked me few questions about the work. Then he went inside the bedroom to change his clothe. While we were talking, he from the bedroom and I in the living room, he came out of the room, wearing only his slip, to clarify some point I mentioned in my talk. He stayed for like few minutes before going inside again to finish dressing. I actually found it a bit inappropriate, but it was a not big deal anyway.

I remember his authoritative tone when we spoke, and given his position that was understood. I also remember that at a certain point in the conversation he said to me something with this meaning “Are you usually that shy and polite or is it just because you are talking to me?”! I just smiled because I thought I had no valid answer.

The visit went well, and few weeks later, we heard about him being accused of sexually assaulting a chamber maid in a hotel in NYC. It was early 90s. The case did not go far although we heard there was strong evidence against him.

Dream (May, 25 2011)

A friend of mine looked cheerful and younger with a head full of hair. It was a surprising youthful look. He told me he became an actor and asked if I would mind playing a role in his new movie. I thought a small silent appearance in a movie could be interesting and so I accepted the offer. The location was in a sea resort and I had to wear a swimming suit and appear like having a conversation with 3 persons, two females and my friend. Someone in the set complimented me on my muscular body. The whole atmosphere was pleasant and fun. The question which repeated in my mind was how my friend’s look unbelievably changed so that no one could think he was a father of 3 grown up girls.

Dream (April 2011)

It was in an unfamiliar foreign land. I was going back home when I sensed that the road did not look as it used to do. I wondered if I took the wrong one. In front of me were a few houses in the middle of the sea. I realized then it was the right road but the floods drowned everything except these few houses. I saw another huge wave coming over. I got scared, turned back and started to run. I held my mobile and tried to call my family to check on them but I could not. I had no option but to run. To run with all my energy. I was too scared to even look back to see if the wave was still there chasing me or not.

Snow-Capped and Lonely

The scenery of snow-capped mountains never fails to captivate me. The fascination does not stem from the fact I was born and raised in a country where snow-capped mountains are “almost” nonexistent, but the notion that far away up there, there is something so different, so pure and visible but yet unattainable like a dream, is what attract me most, particularly when the mountain or chain of mountains overlook a big city. The contrast between the supposed hustle of the city and the secluded white peaks is intriguing. Pictures of cities like Seattle, Vancouver or Santiago make me wish to visit someday although I know it is not a very realizable idea.

A mesmerizing sight was the peak of Mount Fuji in a half clear day when I was in a cable car in the city of Hakone. Someone yelled that Fuji was there. I could not see it and then realized I was looking in a much lower point on the horizon. I looked up and the proud peak was there, almost in the middle of the sky. Rare are the moments that do not get overshadowed by other moments. And that was one. At that phase of my life during which I visited Fuji, I was feeling lonely. Painfully lonely. So lonely that I once picked up the receiver of the silent phone hoping to catch anyone who might have the intention to call.

Not So Chanted April

Temperature rises gradually and I have already started to miss the winter. Our mild winter. The slowly penetrating heat, longer daylights and the spring bloom add their flavor to the chaotic traffic, crowded streets and the newly born revolutionary spirit.

I commute most of the days from the office back home by taxi. The comments I hear sometimes from taxi drivers are why I look angry. I do not feel or look angry, but being serious is hopefully mistaken for looking angry where people, despite the suffering, are used to joke and smile.

Regular exercise at the gym, desperate attempt to finish “A Field of Scarlet Poppies” by Jennifer Dawson which I started lazily to read few months ago, and meeting friends over endless political discussion color my days of April.

Some photos of the tsunami echoed what I always see in my dreams. Floods, tsunami or just huge waves made regular recurring dreams. In these dreams, as panicked as I could be, running away was my only obsession. When I see the photos I recall the scary feeling I have in these dreams.

I am disappointed with a close friend because of his complete silence during recent critical circumstances I have passed through. I am not convinced with his excuses. I feel our friendship suddenly faces cold wind and I say is that it? The end of friendship comes that easily?

In a poem I read recently the poet said the more he tried to flee from his father's character/image/influence that was haunting him, the more he found himself behaving like his father. Do we release out, when we get older, what we stored from our parents' behavior by adopting the same behavior? In my case it seems yes.

I have been described as a rather pessimist person (here with the afore-mentioned seriousness we have a dangerous combination!). I do not disagree. But the tsunami of change in the Middle East, particularly in Egypt, fills me profusely with that thing with feathers. Huge feathers.

I am supposed to go visit my parents’ graves this Friday. I did it last time around five years ago. I wonder is this meaningful anymore? In the past and long before my parents passed away I always thought visiting the graves, in general, touched the soul, but now…..

Is buying a reproduced famous oil painting a sign of bad taste? I am tempted to do but something inside says no, no, no.

Many years ago April took my heart, put it in a blueish triangle shaped box and carried it to South America. It was returned back later in an unregistered mail. And April remained since so unchanted.

Dream (March 2011)

I wanted to buy a second-hand linen-press. I went to the downtown and found a shop at the corner of the street. I climbed few stairs and entered the shop which was rather small and dim. I did not find what I was looking for but the owner told me to check the items in the storeroom. The storeroom was old but unexpectedly bright and very spacious, and I wondered how such big space was annexed to the small shop. I checked the linen-press items but they were all either broken or in bad condition. I felt embarrassed leaving without buying despite the owner’s help, so I told him I would look around somewhere else and come back again. I went out of the shop and walked down the street.

Bullet in Pillow

“Now you know a secret of mine, why don’t you tell me one of yours?” she looked at me with her round smiley face and continued “You seem always reserved, I trust you but you do not put your trust in me”. I hummed and hawed, and tried to think of something that qualified as a secret to tell her but I failed. I cleared my throat and said I did not have secrets and my life was an open book. I did not know if I sounded convincing to her or not. I hoped I did. She added “I hope revealing my secret would not let you look down upon me”. I affirmed her I would not.

We were sitting, that evening, in an almost empty brasserie. Lights were dim and the two coffees on our table were half finished.

I felt for moments that it must have been heart warming to trust someone. That relaxing feeling of lying the head on a comfortable pillow and be ready to sleep. A clean-scented warm fuzzy pillow. But I also wondered if revealing her secrets to me reflected her inability to bear her burden alone more than her trust in me. Few days earlier she gave me a letter related to her secret and asked me to send it by fax for her because she did not want to take the risk by sending it from her home. She was not a cautious person, I thought. Was she right in putting her trust in me? She did not know that I copied the letter and kept it in my drawer before giving her back the original the following day. What was my motive in doing so? I really did not know but what I knew was that I should not have done it.

Fast forward to many years later and by the time I completely forgot about the letter I found the copy in an old dusty box of books and papers. I tore it up.

I wanted to get the conversation out of its serious mood so I asked her “Suppose I might have a secret, can you guess what it could be?” She looked amused and embarrassed for seconds and said “I do not know, tell me at least in which direction should I go and guess?” Every direction was open was my reply. She kept silent for few minutes, and sounded hesitant and a little embarrassed again when she said “I do not know”. She gazed at me, laughed nervously and repeated: I do not know.

Thousands of Afternoons Ago

I was given the train ticket and told to be at Gare de Lyon at least 15 minutes before the train departure. The lady, who looked like Dalida, added that another student would take the same train heading also to the city of Vichy and we would have two adjacent seats.

The other student turned out to be an early forty man from Sri Lanka. One of his eyes was artificial or what we call a "glass eye". We communicated in English because he could not speak French well. Few minutes after the train started to leave, two loud arguing voices were heard. The louder sounded like angry African French female and the other was a calmer old female. It turned out that an old French lady did not like the noise caused by the African lady's children who occupied wrong seats next to her, and she asked the mother to behave her "monkeys". The whole fight/argument focused on using the word "monkey" which made the mother furious but I could not understand exactly how the old lady justified using the word. What surprised me most was the passivity of the passengers because similar situations in the Middle East would have attracted at least 2 or 3 persons to give their views or to support one party or another, but at the time I was not used yet to life in Europe.

We arrived Vichy and it was hot and the air was thick. We found a driver waiting to transfer us to the administrative building of the school. I paid farewell to my companion because from that point our routes were different. I went through the registration procedures, and at the end an energetic secretary gave me a map of the city and a paper on which she typed addresses of hotels, and asked me to search for a suitable residence. My class was scheduled to start the following day at 9.00 AM.

I left my suitcase at the office and went out with the map in one hand and the paper of addresses in the other. All the hotels were located within a walking distance. I started with a shabby hotel where the girl at the reception was wearing very short shorts and holding a cigarette in her hand. A few kids of hers, I assume, were running around. Nothing seemed appealing, neither the hotel nor the room but I wanted to feel settled down as quickly as possible, so I checked in immediately and went back to get my suitcase. In a matter of hour I was in my room, lying in bed. The big window was open to a calm courtyard and the heat started to cool down a little bit in the afternoon. I could hear the radio from afar and Joyce Sim singing Coming Into My Life.

At that moment I felt my stay of one month in Vichy would be long and boring. Very long and boring

In the Army Then (4)

After the training stage I was assigned, in a big base, to work in an administrative post. This was an interesting and rather relaxed period. It felt more like a civil job. We were around 7 recruits in the same office.

M was my best friend. Genuine, rather naïve and funny. He would just say a comment that made everyone crack up and look clueless why the uproar was. He was the only one I kept contact with for years later until we left home, lived in different countries and lost the track of each other.

G was the guy carrying much baggage. We were close but I could not figure out what precisely was behind him. Troubled family? abusive father? Women and sex occupied a big space of his thoughts. It happened that I met him accidentally 10 years after we last saw each other, but he did not recognize me. In order to refresh up his memory, I asked him who his closest friends in the army were. He mentioned two names including mine, but could not attach the old name with the new face. Interesting, but that in fact said more about me than him!

E whom I first found pleasant and easy going turned out later, through some situations with G, to be childish and unreliable. Until the last day of our service I kept a friendly buffer zone between us. I couldn’t/can’t cope with unpredictable persons. E was thin, tall with a typical nerdy look.

T was interesting. A muscular bulky guy with rough features and kind heart who came from a struggling family. He got engaged and used to tell us every morning the details of his conversations (and sometimes intimate moments) with his fiancée. T had an aunt who was a D-list actress whom he was so proud of. Most of us had to shake our memories hard to remember her roles. I posted about T before here.

M2 liked to describe himself as a thug. A fear nothing/care nothing guy. He always said: “Do not see me now in uniform and short hair, this is not my real look”. He definitely was not a shy person and used to boast about his adventures with women, but that did not prevent him from telling us, a group of supposedly heterosexual guys, how he was once cruised in the street by a famous show business man, and explaining in details that eventually he did not mind giving the guy a pity f***.

H was decent and level headed. He would shave his beard and two hours later it would look 24 hours old. Thick beard and sensitive skin caused the inflammatory face. The news suddenly spread out that he got engaged to a female staffer (officer). We were surprised because for more than a year they did not show any kind of special relationship. The last I heard of him they got married and had a child.

I wonder, while writing this post, how do they remember me now? And how their thoughts would match what I thought of myself back then.

O sister 2011

Only two months elapsed but huge events occurred on national and personal levels. Ending dictatorship, unexpected turning point in career and a tragic change in a close friend’s life. I wonder what 2011 hides more?

Dream (February,18 2011)

A blurry faced figure/friend and I decided we had to uncover the crimes committed by a young female. We thought that at a certain hour in the middle of the night we would make a list of her crimes in two languages and attache it to a mug shot. I felt confused and uneasy. At the fixed time I/we prepared the list and the difficult task was to take the mug shot. The accused resisted me/us and I had to drag her by hair. It turned violent but I almost overcame her.

Straight Pass of Suffering

Through the straight pass of suffering
The martyrs even trod,
Their feet upon temptation,
Their faces upon God.

A stately, shriven company;
Convulsion playing round,
Harmless as streaks of meteor
Upon a plant’s bound.

Their faith the everlasting troth;
Their expectation fair;
The needle to the north degree
Wades so, through polar air.

Emily Dickinson

February 11, 2011

Freedom from space and also freedom from time
Freedom from attachment and freedom from crime
Freedom to work and freedom to play
Freedom to believe and freedom to pray.
Freedom to experience a rebirth someday.

George Krokos

In the Army Then (3)

One week after I joined the army, we were ordered to move to the training camp. It was in a remote arid area in the desert where we could smell the iodine scented breeze coming from the east as the sea was less than 10 km far. A chain of high rocky mountains stood on the western horizon. North and south were open. It was January, so weather was quite cold in early mornings and late nights, but a bit chilly the rest of the day. The camp was composed of few scattered one floor buildings of dusty yellowish colour, and three or four lean trees made the only visible green. There was nothing else except discipline, new faces, shaved heads and hours of hard training.

Besides positive and negative sides of the military life, being alone in many afternoons when I could go to a reclusive spot in the camp and sit down in complete silence looking at the endless sand and mountains was a tremendous joy. I once found a white tiny wild flower standing alone and was amazed how it could come up off the direness and survive the soldiers’ smashing boots. A lame poem was composed back then and echoed these thoughts.

No real friendships were developed in that stage, contrary to the later-on stages of my military service. Maybe the hardships of the beginning did not allow us to seek real communication. Even fights were rare in the beginning. Everyone seemed busy with himself and with coping with the new life. Only the camaraderie ruled through funny times and somber moments. We almost belonged to different everything; education, regions and social background.

After the dinner by 8 pm, a long walk from the mess to our dorm, which was located in a far point in the camp, was the sign of the end of a hard long day.

Two persons are still in my memory from these days. B with his sharp features, big eyes and hot temper. He would never let anyone’s bad manners pass without a reaction or at least a comment. And little N whom I knew before very casually but one day, for no reason that I knew, became very mean to me in public. The following day he came and apologized to me in public too. I never understood why the meanness was in the first place. I remember both of them sometimes and wonder where life might have taken them.

In 2010

I witnessed Karma working in all its glory. It was the first time to see, with my own eyes, an evil person got punished for what he did. That restored, somehow, my lost feeling of the fairness in the world.

Two compatriots met on a foreign soil. It led to a mutual feeling that would have never existed if they were back home, but home sickness and lonliness made the impossible happen.

Wonderlful job, high pay and beautiful house did not prevent Y from being miserable. Very miserable. He would not trade off, though, what he had for what he had not.