Shit Detector in Turkey (48% said no thanks)
Share Article One Sunday evening Lucky walked along a narrow Bursa street in Turkey.
Kurdish mothers in headscarves extended thick manicured necks beyond balconies observing street life. Women swept, mopped, stirred apartment dust, shaking molecules out over blood stained escarpments.
They married newly consecrated relatives during fifty-minute encounter sessions designed to use the target language in the context of remembering. The thrill of remembering old memories overlaid with new linguistic impressions.
Learning is easy. Remembering is difficult.
The president plays his hand.
Glorious grand immediate silent ivory piano keys waited for inspiration’s fingers. Feeling, tension, point, counterpoint, hammer strings, resonance, and chromatic silence paused with reflection and flight. Symbols of forgotten strumpets playing music between notes wailed solitary notes across an abyss.
Creased faces ironed brilliant red roses petals. Faces embedded themselves between pages in a worn black unlined notebook.
Two shy Turkish women with beautiful faces and humongous rear end collisions eating lonely tears in a tomato based culture buried ancestors.
Water exploded off pools as happy hour birds heard homo-sapiens shift erotic labia gears after assembling French cars at a Bursa eco-friendly green plant.
“Welcome to Earth. Hello babies.”
“Were you punished for being a dreamer?”
“No. I was fortunate my family understood my nature. They respected my need for solitary time.”
“I see,” said a blind beggar.
“Wipe your glasses with what you know.”
“I was born to be a poet like a bird is born to be a musician.”
“Sing high, sing low, sweet chariot.”
“Brilliant.”
“Fascinating. We learned to say fascinating in finishing school instead of bullshit.”
“You have a built-in shit detector.”
“Ain’t that the fucking truth? Everyone needs a shit detector here in Turkey."
Truth is a value-based meaning factor. Can you create believable fiction-memory?”
Lucky passed his double identity twin theory below the surface of appearances at Ozmanhomogenized Gazi metro station. Two gravediggers wearing long black overcoats carried umbrella projectiles. Stepping into unknown futures they stabbed cement in cadence.
Green Metro cars slid into the station. Lucky sat across from a boy, 10, his mother and father. His father’s hands were hard calloused. They were simple working people from Van in the east. The boy smiled, fascinated by whirling prisms of light flashing past windows.
His father pulled up his son’s shirt. On his chest were two plastic suction cups and a small machine the size of a deck of cards. Ace high. A heart monitor measured his beats, his life rhythm, and his regularity. His father checked the display, saw the cups were secure and dropped the shirt.
“It is a machine for my son. It helps him,” he said with tired eyes. “We got it at Hospital A. Doctors said it was essential for his life.”
After the shirt covered his chest the boy and Lucky smiled, cupping their hands around eyes scanning the universe. They were explorers with magnifying glasses.
He’s a happy kid. Not afraid of a thing. We should all be so fortunate. Especially all the tired Turkish adults streaming their life tales, “Oh pity me. I am so, so tired.”
Talk to the kid. He’ll tell you how tired really feels.
Echoes of digger umbrella projectiles on stone faded near young lovers huddled on benches, a beggar crash landed on tarmac, head scarfed wrapped women with sacred scared eyes, children on curious adventures and wide eyed echoes along green tracks leading into dark tunnels disappearing into a wilderness of snow blanketed forests where two black shawled women negotiated muddy paths through foliage waiting for spring to thaw out relationships with nature.
Rabbits running in the ditch The Season of the Witch.
Living breathing biped accidents craved a place to happen with clarity insight and precision. Pearl letters played out on a fragile necklace of water bead molecules in an instant in eternity.
Time is a strung-out pimp looking for salvation, a fix an exit.
Playing a Turkish lament in Trabzon.
