As the season whirls on, I am at the whim of cycles as well. Winter walks toward us softly -- or as softly as such a giant can -- and sun doesn't seem to make it out of bed in the morning, propping itself up on an arm and lazily peering down upon the city (it never moves above a 45 degree angle in the sky), then hunkering back down again early. It becomes dark by five.
It has become cold as well. And as we begin to witness one another's breath, I am reminded that this is also the "tacit way we express the intimacy that no one talks about" (that's Gretel Ehrlich). Rain swoops in like the seagulls that dive after boats on the Bosphorous, then sits in heavy for the long haul. The forecast is grey matter, seemingly forever. So we keep it in.
Which begs an introduction of... the MEN OF CONSTANT SORROW:
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| Savage and Phillip not depicted, as they are currently mustache-less |
Standing with Shady on the corner the other day, we realized that we both had mustaches, similar haircuts, were wearing each others clothes, and that our slang has mingled and grown into a peculiar idiom. But I'd like to think that our exchange moves through more than just our expression -- in a city that has me feeling so, so far away from nature (and acute awareness of things moving inside you that comes from being in it), what we share has become my solace.
At this point, we've moved beyond the newness of meeting one another, and now realize that our time here is passing, will pass. The community that we've grown here (it's not all bros, I swear) feels simple and essential, like family. At least in my eyes. All in all, Shady put it right -- our time here is moving deliciously fast. So here's a little diddy of mine inspired by our wondering about the cultural dialogue that we've all struck up together...
"Whitman once bequeathed himself to the earth beneath our footsoles, and if we are to find him there, then you may find me in the voice beneath each and every mustache we have bloomed here in this city. Call it collective effervescence or general mayhem, but we move into and past one another, sharing much more than clothes and the ways in which we might place them upon our bodies.
In thinking of us, and Istanbul, I’ve found that our dialogue here, although conveyed through haphazard fashion and the solidarity found in seeking a pure otherness – achieved in expressing a distinct, genuine presence – glows as a result of our acceptance and willingness to slip into an intimacy from which we might never recover. Whether or not it be caused by the convenience arisen from the brevity of our stay together, we fall into one another’s arms and speak with each other’s tongues and we are loud and if men are not loud then they are old.
Thus, we commune only with those who are willing to pull the edges of our horizons down into each smile, to render the seemingly infinite possibilities of our time quite simple; ours is a deep trust in a life that moves much like the river that we sit above and ponder over – forever swift, with us forever caught in its current.
Maybe, in seeking orientation and guidance, truth, we move too quickly over ground not yet solid. And if this shared dialect fades like all things do, let us hope that this new sincerity will find itself manifested over and over throughout the rest of our lives, packing down hard and tough, some roadbed for us to finally walk upon.
For resting: what I love most of all about our youth is this – in this grand becoming, we are such, such fools for the world. And yet, whoever you are, I mustache you something – are you not one too?"
While I'm at this, I'm just going to keep going...
In final thanksgivings, I am deeply grateful for the river to which I attend daily. Orhan Pamuk says that Istanbul derives it's strength from the Bosphorous; the river is the soul of the city. And there I sit on the waterfront, feet dangling like a small boy, gazing out. Watching it all go by. It brings me to a passage from Rilke's Second Elegy:
But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we
breathe ourselves out and away; from moment to moment
our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume. Though someone may tell us:
"Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room, the whole springtime
is filled with you..." -- what does it matter? he can't contain us,
we vanish inside him and around him. And those who are beautiful,
oh who can retain them? Appearance ceaselessly rises
in their face, and is gone. Like dew from the morning grass,
what is ours floats into the air, like steam from a dish
of hot food. O smile, where are you going? O upturned glance:
new warm receding wave on the sea of the heart...
alas, but that is what we are. Does the infinite space
we dissolve into, taste of us then?
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