Fragments - TLC 36

At high noon Bursa emergency medical crews pried a suicidal man from below engines after he was electrified, illuminated and eliminated by Metro lightning. His famous last words: Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye mother.

As medical teams slid his mangled body into an ambulance Lucky explored a cemetery. Wild flowers, white headstones, names, dates and memories slept below towering pines and evergreens.

A grave-faced widow sobbing on a fresh plot pounding her breasts keened, gone…gone. Her sister drummed topsoil. A friend, mother, aunt or grandmother from Asian Steppes whispered to a child in Tamashek, “She is cleaning the spirit entry. She is drumming death, remembering.”

The child wailed to grave women, “Auntie, Auntie.”

The silent woman playing drum soil remembered her son, brother, father, husband, uncle and grandfather with love. Her tears watered red, yellow and white roses. I brought you into the world. I give you back to Earth. The circle of life is complete.

A sharp rose thorn pushed a white haired woman in a wheelchair through a humid rain forest covering 6% of Earth. Smoke from burning coconut and banana leaves circled through heart’s four clamoring chambers. Love echoing from the Forest Floor to Zeynep’s Understory rose to the Canopy before emerging through the Emergent where Bird of Paradise, Screaming Eagles and Winter Hawk flew free.

He passed chiseled Arabic script stones. Explosive metal shattered rock. A man pounding a sledgehammer disseminated graven memory shards. Pausing, he removed exculpatory evidence before slamming hammer’s voice, “I love the fragments.”

Sun sought asylum. Rose petals rained. Musical drum soil melodies echoed from a woman’s fingers.

 

Bamboo - TLC 27

Reflects vigor, life, energy, zeal, endurance, integrity, patience and resilience.

Lucky carried small strong Bamboo to Bursa.

Freezing January snowflake feathers fell. Adults in the Ankara bus terminal stared at thin green life floating through their transition zone.

Luminous leaves remembered spring, soil, light and resilience. Smiling children understood Bamboo’s natural motivation, intention and freedom.

He propped Bamboo into a meshed container, fronting seat sixteen. They travelled west for six hours.

They passed glittering snowfields. Solitary brown-feathered Winter Hawk rested on ice-crested branches above frozen animal tracks. Silver-white trees sparkled crystal diamonds under a blue sky. 

After winter they scaled steep mountains into autumn. Bamboo witnessed silent snow peaks. Late afternoon light played in red wispy clouds.

Descending they departed seasons. Winter became fall in reverse, green moss, summer fruit trees. A farmer on a tractor plowed spring soil. “Ah,” whispered Silent Spring, “I am ready for my turning. I feel blades in my furrows dancing with roots...”

Bamboo pressed green leaves against a window.

“Where am I going?”

“Yes,” said a leaf, “it’s an amazing Zen meditation in a long now.”

“Am I this or am I dreaming?” said a leaf turning a page.

They reached Bursa on the western edge of The Silk Road. Bursa began in 200 A.D. below Uludag (Mountain of Monks) 2,543 meters high, edging snow stone above forests toward Roman thermal baths and mineral rich waters.

They found a temporary room at Achebadem, a private suburban hospital. Clean sheets, a cot and three daily hots. It was an intensive care visual spectrum color theory filled with young lovers living emotional zombie lies of healthy doubt and uncertainty.

Downhill from the hospital a crying middle-aged man holding an orange hospital folder waited above groundat a Metro subway station. Folder contained papers from a doctor, a lab, a prognosis and a definitive medical history. It revealed a story about someone dying - a wife, child, uncle, someone he loved.

He waited in heavy unconditional silence for a green Metro to transport him down the line to his 700-year old Ottoman mountain village of Cumalikizik.

Sharing his tale he’d spill the unabridged package of loss and memory on a hand-hewn oak table surrounded by friends and relatives. Say it’s not true, said a grieving ancestor thumbing medical leaves. It’s a true fact, he said, they left us, alone, we are grateful for their love and our memory. We cry for the living, not the dead.

Hypodermic needles named Pain and Pleasure sharing fabulous silent conversations laughed on life support.

Walking past the hospital Lucky smelled red, white and yellow roses. A bird pressed itself against a rose thorn to make her self sing. He whistled hello. Bird’s refrain was a short sharp interlude trilling a deep symphonic vibration-throated free mystery with harmonic warbling scales.

Zeynep - Wonder Kid

Once upon a time there was a traveling teacher and he left Asia Minor after a year of exploring and returned to Southeast Asia.

He began helping 4th graders. As a student he was making new friends and sharing on another very small part of the spinning planet filled with orchids and astonishing butterflies. Ah, the joys of travel, teaching and taking risks!

Meanwhile, back in Bursa, Turnkey, a magical place on a border between Asia and Europe, at the Western end of the Silk Road, Zeynep is a precocious 5-year old.

The front of her t-shirt reads, "Nobody's perfect." 
The back reads, "I am Nobody."

She pointed around her restaurant and whispered across the table.

"See these adults? Why do they look so sad and/or angry? Because, when they were young, they were punished for dreaming."

"Yes, fear is a real imaginary way with them, this perpetual adolescence."

"And I'll tell you another thing," said Zeynep. "I experience joy through writing, painting, drawing, singing and dancing."

"Yes," I whispered, "I am happy we met here. You are my best friend in the world. I trust you and love you." We shared a hug and dissolved into tear reflected light.