Stain-glass Eyes

The days go by quickly. I have to stop myself from thinking I’m living. I am so programed to go through the motions. I’m good at it. I’ve had a lot of practice, right down to the part in my hair. Days run into each other without a hello or a goodbye to each other. I’m on a treadmill keeping up. When I do stop myself, I get scared. I don’t know what is next. I don’t want to know. Yet, I do. I’m afraid of loving and committing myself to another life than what I'm use to. I'm afraid of letting myself down by being afraid and not trying new things. I watch Elizabeth and Heidi right now and I feel for them because I think they must feel the same way, sometimes. I don’t know for sure, but it’s likely. Elizabeth has huge decisions to make, huge weighing to do and it has to be stressful. To decide to commit yourself for the next eight years to study. Choosing a type of life-style that creates itself. Yet, she will be creating, researching, influencing thoughts, minds

I can hear the "Call to Prayer" sitting here ready to write. I get such a good feeling when I hear the sound booming across the neighborhood. Some of the dogs are howling because it hurts their ears. From what I hear, it was much nicer when it wasn't a recording. I can imagine it was quite affective. When I hear the voices of the men in Istanbul selling simit, umbrellas, and other items, I am surprised by how well they project their voices over and over again without seeming to strain their vocal chords. I would guess it was an honor to be the person chosen to be the "caller" before it went to the recordings. I also like the sound that the men make as they call when they take their carts up and down the streets to ask for any spare parts, wires, and junk. I'm a junk collector myself and have a great respect for these men who are not ashamed of working. It beats throwing the things in garbages and polluting when these things can be reused or recycled

After I read awhile this morning by the huge wall-length window over-looking Kadiköy, I put my book on my lap, opened over my knee, and I let my eyes focus on nothing. I think of it as my way of daydreaming. But this morning I couldn't help but analize it a little. I was leaning forward, stretching my back and letting the sun rest on my face and I noticed a tiny mosquito-like bug on the bottom of the window, crawling. I saw the birds outside the window flying, the shadows on the wooden floor from the frames of the window, my stocking feet, and the small circle of cracking paint on the wall by the radiator. I was consciously thinking about how I can see in so many directions and places at one time. . I was also thinking about it being a Sunday morning. I could hear the traffic start to move outside, the birds singing (or complaining about all the bugs who have decided to reside inside the apartments intead of outside where they should be). And I'm missing Sunday mass at St.

I miss driving. I never thought I'd feel this way, but I do. Every day I get picked up at my apartment building by a special private school mini-bus. The first time I was transported to school I thought the driver was crazy. The next day I just thought his driving was crazy. I've had more time to observe his driving habits and I'm impressed. He has the skills of a race-car driver. I think he has a set of rules about driving like one too. He doesn't stop at stop signs unless someone is coming. (he must consider them "yield" signs) He doesn't cut anyone off he just swirves at just the right angle next to the car in front of him so no one can get in. (left or right side doesn't matter, he watches the space available to him). He's very conservative about shifting gears. He'd rather honk and get the person in front of him to edge over so he can continue (and they often do move over). I think school buses probably have some type of priority o

If you see two posts the same sometimes, it's me trying to add a picture and failing! I'll figure it out eventually or one of my 5th graders will help me. As I said in the blog I posted twice, the hell with perfect. I will keep writing. Maybe my writing will get better and my words will help you see the picture I find impossible to copy and paste.

I picked up my shirts and jacket at the dry cleaners yesterday. I had to remember where the place was so I could get back there. I don't always count on my memory. (no laughter, please) I write things down. What it's next to, across from and if it's up from the park or down from the park, or on the same road that has trolley tracks. It felt good to walk in the door and act like it was no big deal I was able to pick up my clothes. But, then I remembered when I got up to the counter I didn't bring the receipt for the six items I left. There were two men there and when I looked in my purse and showed them the, “I-forgot-the-receipt-look” the man at the counter sighed loudly as he looked at the other man. I was able to tell them six in Turkish. That's it. Just the number of items. They each started looking around the small establishment to find my things. They were not hanging together. I didn't really figure out what was the rhyme to where they put thing

   Winter Rose is a piece of my writing I revised tonight.  I what happened to a friend of  mine and she just recently asked, "Are you going to write about the girl on the ferry?" I changed the title five times.  I finally wrote this title and was happy.  It made me think of my Godparents, Yvonne and Clyde in St.Ignace, they have a daughter named Rose.  And being Irish and loving music, my Godfather likes the song, My Wild Irish Rose.   But, a winter rose? That is a spiritual gift. You have to be aware and open to the possibility.  It's not normal, it's not meant to be, but.....it does happen and it's more beautiful than the rose of summer. It feels good to have revised this piece of memory.  It's not only mine, but it's mine to share.  Anyone that knows me very well knows I love to receive and give "home-made" gifts.  Gifts that money can't buy and only time and love can create. I can't give you a winter rose but I can give you my

I’m going to share a poem I wrote a few weeks ago. It’s Valentine’s Day. I want to share this poem about love. As you can see I didn’t put a title yet. I revised it and put the date. I kept track of when I revised it because Toby taught me to keep track of my progress in writing. She has been an important person to me in so many ways over the past 5 years. She was my teacher in the Red Cedar Project. Toby Kahn-Loftus. A name with distinction and I’m proud to know her. Elizabeth gave me the book that inspired me for my birthday in January. Excellent book, if you love to read. (and if you don’t, maybe her writing will let you in on what you may be missing) Good books don’t directly give you a plan for writing. They just make you think, feel and if you write- it begins. When Shafak talked about a “wall” on pg. 128 of Black Milk, the feelings started and I wrote. When I write often cry, dream, escape into a world of myself. It directs itself. Usually when I really get going

I have my small laptop rigged so it's sitting inside a drawer (kinda), I have a small black stool under the desk to put my feet up on, and I'm leaning back in this very nice office chair (even for U.S. Standards) Why I'm telling you these details is the set up was not intended for a short person like me. The apartment I'm renting belongs to a large, tall young man. I feel a little dwarfed sitting at his desk while he's in Spain. He's there learning Spanish and working as a Chef. He was a chef here in Istanbul restaurant called the 360. http://www.360istanbul.com/intro.html in case you want to check it out. Thank you all who have let me know they have connected to my blog. It feels pretty good to know you would want to listen to me even though I'm so far away. And anyone who doesn't know me, I hope you can see me in my writing. (it's pretty hard to keep “me” out of the words) Ferry boat pulling up to Kadikoy I've ridden the ferr

 Writing in My Head       2/10/12 I was reading Orhan Pamuk's book ( thank you Elizabeth, for letting me borrow it ), ISTANBUL MEMORIES OF A CITY, this morning. I reread parts he wrote at the beginning because they felt so true for me. Some words I can't help but fantasize, were meant just for me. I want to start my entry with words from Pamuk's book: “ at least once in a lifetime, self-reflection leads us to examine the circumstances of our birth. Why were we born in this particular corner of the world, on this particular date? These families into which we were born, these countries and cities to which the lottery of life has assigned us – they expect love from us, and in the end, we do love them, from the bottom of our hearts ­but did we perhaps deserve better?.............I am disinclined to complain: I've accepted the city into which I was born in the same way I've accepted my body (much as I would have preferred to be more handsome and better built) and

I’ve had to take a hard look at who I am the last couple of months.  Everywhere I go I see faces I don’t know. The lack of familiar is comforting to me.  I use to say, “I love being anonymous in Ann Arbor.”  Now I’m in Istanbul and I still enjoy that feeling.  It could be because I like the freedom of creating the me I’m getting to know again. I’m nobody . What I say, how I act, where I go, what I do is who I am.  Not a past, not a reputation, not a “free” riding card.  I have to pay for each personal or professional interaction I have.  No one is going to say, “Well, you’ll have to forgive her….blah, blah.”  Or   “She’s under a lot of stress lately….blah, blah.”  Or  “She’s a singer at…..blah, blah.” I went into a pharmacy this evening to refill an antihistamine for my allergies, and I was nobody.  I try to make as little eye contact as possible unless someone speaks to me when I am buying something. (I don’t think I learned this code on Truckey Street, but who knows?)  The pharm

I started to write yesterday evening and after 2 hours I had an entry called “Reasons I’m Determined to Learn Turkish”.  I saved on Blogspot and it’s out there somewhere.  I guess it will never be read or posted or retrieved.  I don’t really care, I enjoy the writing process. So, I will keep writing.  This time I’m saving on my documents so I don’t have to get so frustrated before going to bed tonight. I love Istanbul.  I’ve been here since December 19th and I love it.  I have been challenged many times in life(as we all have), but I have NEVER been so challenged as I have been here.  It’s the mental along with the physical difficulty I enjoy.  I feel so proud of myself. I’ve been lost for 2 or 3 hours in Istanbul and I keep walking, keep thinking, keep focusing on what I need to do to find my way.  Many times I’ve walked 8 miles working my way back to my apartment.  I get such a strong determination out of nowhere and it keeps me walking no matter how exhausted I am.  I know I co