Down dream street - TLC 24

An unprecedented wave of egalitarian support featuring millions of sad serene women facing arranged marriages filled with empty hopes and vague promises of love, happiness and financial security enlisted to become engaged to strangers across transcendental borders. 

This wave resembled an open hand gesturing the eternal present in a long now as one Turkish mother gifting her daughter fare well gestures watched her disappear into life’s teeming stream.

“Be well my love. You are in our hearts.”

Her daughter joined a tribe of singing women. They lived their dream making sacrifices with clear intention, motivation and mindfulness. The entourage of women danced through valleys, climbed jagged Mountains of Regret and entered a no-name village where males pounded war drums and hammered plowshares into word swords.

Marginalized poor angry males killed each other over pita bread, olives, fresh tomatoes, kebabs and geographical dust while studying imaginary maps.

“The map is not the territory,” said Visualization, a cartographer. “It is a linguistic philosophy.”

“There are no facts, only interpretations,” said a monk in Kyoto writing seventeen syllable haiku. The moon is not your finger and your finger is not the moon.

“Where is this place?” said Curious in a strange village in a strange country on a strange continent on a strange planet in a strange solar system in a strange universe.

“It is far away,” said a gravedigger with earth moving experience. “It is a dysfunctional place where bronze statues of fallen soldiers, warriors, corrupt politicians and testosterone fueled fools rust in dust, make millions off the sweat of wage slaves and congratulate each other on their mutual stupidity and insatiable greed.”

Winter Hawk winged women, “Go home. Return to your families and friends. Live in peace.”

Women followed their heart-mind.

“It’s tough living in dystopia where women are beautiful and sad,” said Zeynep. “Millions don’t know whether they are coming or going, going, long gone. They’ve fashioned well-defined living death masks from loss, hopelessness, confusion and uncertainty selling their tears and fears wrapped in silence, the loudest noise in the world. Millions wait for a forced marriage.”

Potential Turkish husbands gathered to draw lots. They drew with ink, pastels and charcoal. The charcoal came from a deep black shameless unconscious well of women singing, “Give me your sperm, your love juice. Give me a child, give me someone to love and protect carry forever, cherish and spoil with benign neglect. Give me your future. Give me a child who will help me bury your worthless corpse. We don’t care about adverbial labial love, it’s all arranged. Everything has already happened. We just need to experience it. Love is a blind whore with a mental disease and no sense of humor. It’s an impossible love. It’s a matter of practicality. Business is business. Marriage first. Love later.”

“Here,” said a marriage broker offering his son, “accept this boy/man stranger into your heart. Give him a child and user-value with implicit assessment for money in a temporary security agreement. Open your legs swallowing his thick purple verb. Practice dramatic rising action, climax and falling asleep action with a happy ending. Sensational.”

“We breed, work and get slaughtered,” said a baby-bearing slave. Daughters wrapped these constricting words around their hearts in love’s tangled jungle.

Lucky never saw women taxi drivers in Turkey. It’s a male ego thing. Bright tires, spinning wheels. Toy’s For Big Tots show.

Idle retired or unemployed guys sat around in cafes from opening to closing playing backgammon and drinking tea. They slid wooden pieces carved from youth’s forgotten toy story. Young idle macho guys, the next generation of backgammon players played taxi symphonies in the horn section. Beep-beep.

Women knew better. They were more intelligent than men. They expressed their feelings. They lived longer. They knew how the world worked.

Courageous young women confronted parents. “I respect your traditional ideas about arranged marriages however to be honest, heavy, deep and real, it’s old fashioned conservative values and morals. This is 2014 not 1987. I am a member of a new freethinking educated generation. I am not willing to be a victim of your narrow-minded attitudes. I will choose my friends and lovers and potential husband based on my needs and our mutual sense of self-respect. I know why the caged bird sings chirp, chirp, set me free.”

 

calligraphy Brooms

Down dream street in Turkish reality

an unprecedented wave of egalitarian support featuring millions of sad, serene women facing callously arranged marriages filled with empty hopes and vague promises of love and happiness enlisted to become engaged to strangers on transcendental borders. This wave of support resembled an open handed gesturing in the eternal present as a mother reluctantly gifted her daughter a long fare well wave watching her disappear into life’s teeming stream.

         “Be well my love,” she sang. “You will always be in our hearts.”

         Her daughter joined a world tribe of singing, sighing women. They lived their dream, making sacrifices with clear intention, motivation, determination and focus. The entourage of waving, singing women danced through valleys, climbed jagged Eastern Mountains named Regret and entered a no-name village where males pounded war drums and hammered plowshares into word swords.

         Marginalized poor angry males killed each other over pita bread, olives, fresh tomatoes, kebabs, women and geographical dust while studying imaginary maps.

         “The map is not the territory,” said Visualization, a cartographer.

         “Where is this place?” asked a woman leader in a strange village on a strange planet in a strange solar system in a strange universe.

         “It is far away,” said a gravedigger with vast earth moving experience. “It is a dysfunctional place where bronze statues of fallen soldiers, warriors, politicians and testosterone fueled fools rust and congratulate each other on their mutual stupidity.”

         Wind whispered to women, “Go home, return to your children, your families and friends. Live in peace.”

         Women listened with heart-mind.

         “It’s tough living in dystopia where women are beautiful and sad,” said Visualization. “Millions don’t know whether they are coming or going, going, long gone. They’ve fashioned well-defined living death masks from loss and hopelessness and confusion and uncertain doubts selling tears wrapped in silence. Millions of us wait for an arranged marriage.”

         Potential husbands gathered to draw lots. They drew with ink and pastels and charcoal. The charcoal came from a deep black shameless unconscious well of tears where women, tired of waiting, sang, “Give me a child, give me someone to love and protect and carry forever and cherish and spoil with benign neglect. Give me your future. We don’t really truly honestly care about adverbial love, it’s all arranged. Everything has already happened. We just need to experience it. Love is a blind whore. It’s an impossible love. It’s a matter of practicality. Marriage first love later.”

         “Here,” said a marriage broker, “accept this man, this stranger into your heart. Just give him a child. Get to the verb.”

         “We breed, work and get slaughtered,” said one woman. Daughters wrapped these constricting words around their hearts in love’s tangled jungle.

         You never see women taxi drivers in Turkey. It’s a male ego thing with bright speeding tire spinning toys on wheels. It’s a Toy’s For Tots live game show. In cafes idle retired or chronically employed guys sit around all day from opening to closing playing backgammon. They slide little wooden pieces carved from youth’s forgotten toys. Young macho guys spin shiny yellow taxi wheels playing arranged symphonies in the horn section. They are the next generation of backgammon players.

         Women know better. They express their feelings. They live longer.

         Courageous women stood up to parents. “I respect your traditional ideas about arranged marriages, however, to be really honest heavy deep and real with you, it’s old fashioned conservative thinking. This is 2013 not 1987. I am a member of a new freethinking generation. I am not willing to be a victim, a willing victim of your narrow-minded attitudes. I will choose my friends, lovers and companions, based on my needs. I know why the caged bird sings.”

         Before leaving Ankara I shared a Chinese calligraphy painting poem with students. It was an old Qing dynasty poem, a gift from primary students in a rural Sichuan village school. A visual simplicity symbolized the transient nature of life lessons.

         Bright beautiful children in their radiant universe wearing red Young Chinese Communist Pioneer scarves around well-scrubbed necks sitting upright at colorful plastic desks raised hands when I asked questions yelling, “Let me try! Let me try!”

         Only young brave students had the courage, the absence of fear to say this. Older students at middle schools and university were aged and silenced through tyranny and oppressive parental and educational brainwashed ideological practice. Shame. They’d lost their curiosity and enthusiasm. Only primary kids had the courage, the inherent inner freedom to say, “Let me try, let me try!”

         Their beautiful black pictographic calligraphy ink read, “One day a man climbed into the mountains and reached a hut. He met some children.”

         “Where is the teacher?” he asked them.

         “They pointed up the mountain covered by clouds. ‘He is not here, he’s gone into the mountains to look for herbs.’”

         Chinese characters were creased where latitudes and longitudes met linguistic horizons.