A Tomato Based Culture

From Fujian, China to Ankara, Turkey (a kind of fowl) to Bursa along the Silk Road with Doner and Pide, all the sliced and diced tomatoes, all the bamboo baggage filled with laughter and forgetting inside the smashing of utensils and wash and wear drip dry neon holiday flashing factories along metro subway tracks where world weary

pedestrians completing a simple sentence with a full plate of delicious shoppers dancing inside fire breathing ovens stoking love's fires before racing home to mother, father, sister, brother all wearing traditional anxiety values around heavily medicated ma-scared necks handing someone change, your fragile receipt for paying

at the cosmic bowling alley for strikes and spares and did you know the great father liberator has a train car parked forever at the main station, a gift from Adolph, the Further and it was all imaginary, this T place where idle men stood around looking bored and unemployed, uneducated drinking brown tea

after artfully massaging a microscopic silver spoon around the rim, deep into the universe of sugar stars clanging metal against a small glass destroying cubes manufactured in a filthy factory - so an inspection engineer whispered in her strict confidence - don't use the sugar she whispered across a plate of pasta on a chilly Ankara night before they went to a wedding in Ulus, the ancient Roman village, deep in an underground cavern filled with musicians, dancers, and children

gypsies played anvils

far away from shy lovers holding hands under the table inside the rising sun of their desire, their passion for yawning bamboo chairs where two elderly women in multi-hued headscarves smoked exploding drops of water from plummeting icicles onto tiled roofs above the cafe where a ghost scribbled in shadows burning his fingers to see the why eye and the falling water drops were music to his ears

Metta.

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.

The Three Baboons

Speaking of 40,000 year old primates, then, one day he saw three baboons. They were part of a Russian tribe living in his Ankara neighborhood. This is how it happened around dawn. 

A blond corn-plaited hairy one stuck her head out of a 5th story window and spit. She watched the spittle fly past trees and SPLAT! on the pavement. 

She looked around and they saw each other. She smiled. Her upper teeth were small and sharp. She started jabbering in her strange language. Her sounds, her words were questions. She wanted to know something.

Here is a rough translation.
“Where do you come from?”
“Are you alone?”

"Do you have money?"
“Do you want sex?”
She made many sounds but that’s the essence. Baboon language is simple and direct.

He just stared at her and smiled. She smiled. They smiled at each other.

She disappeared. A moment later she returned with two friends. One had dark hair, very hard eyes and big floppy breasts. She shook them side to side while speaking to him. 

“Look at these watermelons,” she said.
They were heavy fruit.

Another baboon joined them. She was blond with sapphire eyes and straight hair with short spiked bangs. Her oval face smiled and she stuck out her tongue. A shiny silver post glistened from the middle. Laughing like a child, she rolled her tongue around, up and out like a little snake. Every now and then a snake needs to find a cave.  

She appeared to be the most playful one in the group. 

All three stared at him and jabbered again, making suggestions and questions with their inarticulate yet clearly understood sounds.

“Where are you from?”
Blah, blah, blah.
“How old are you?”
"Do you have money?"
“Do you want sex?”

The plaited hair one got halfway out on the narrow balcony and crouched down, opening her legs. She started riding an imaginary wild mustang. Her eyes and face assumed a state of ecstasy. 

The one with hard eyes started gesturing with her hand, massaging empty space. He stared at this spectacle and smiled.

They laughed. The power of suggestion. 

The silver posted one kept smiling and flicking her tongue in and out, like breathing.

They were full of energy and wanted some action. Such amazing, funny and strange wild baboons!

Metta.

  

Orhan Pamuk and Article 301

The Frankfurt Book Fair is honoring writers from Turkey. 

Orhan Pamuk spoke at the Fair about the ongoing struggle writers face in Turkey due to fear, government censorship and draconian oppression. 

In 2005 Pamuk was charged under Article 301 of the penal code after he spoke about the 30,000 Kurds and millions of Armenians killed in Turkey. He was acquitted. 

"...at this moment there are hundreds of writers and journalists being prosecuted and found guilty under this article."

"YouTube, like many other domestic and international websites, has been blocked for residents of Turkey for political reasons,"  Pamuk said, more...

Metta.