Wind on my shoulder

It's curious, the amount of influence certain people have in our lives. The way they come and go as the wind does--as it wishes, but without really knowing why? It seems like coincidence. The timing sometimes is perfect, as if meant to be. I feel a rush of trust and love, perhaps even a misattribution of attraction. I love wholly and fast. It is scary. Even with my closest friends, sometimes my trust and vulnerability scares me. I can be so afraid of the hurt I open myself up for. I am unfortunately anxiety ridden; I am one of those people who panic when someone doesn't show up on time--not because I am angry, but because I have the worst case scenarios running like race horses through my mind: hit by a train, robbed, murdered, found out someone died, had a heart attack, hit by a moose/deer, what if they had an appendicitis while driving? SARS? H1N1 (swine) flu? An unknown viral infection that makes you disappear and never be heard from again...what if you leave me and I don't have a reason? What if, I am left all alone? What if I get made a fool of, again. What if...my mind plays these tricks on itself and I wish that it wouldn't. I am reading a book right now (one of far too many, or so I think people would say) called Crucial Conversations a book that talks about not letting your emotions dictate your actions but, understanding where they are coming from and using that knowledge to have better communication and compassion. I don't really know where I am going with all of this--I know I am looking for something, I just don't know what. I want my words to spill forth unto this computer screen with answers for me. Why won't my words speak to me the universe's answers? Or, are they right here in front of me?

Soul food

Blue Guide to Istanbul by Lillias Bever, in Bellini in Istanbul

The blue of early morning
and diesel smoke, of pollution hovering
in the hills above the Bosphorus

the pointed shadows of the fountains,
the blue cry
of the ezan of dawn--

the blue of sea and sky, of boats crossing
and recrossing the straits,

and the blue and white uniforms of the ferrymen,
the ferries rumbling impatiently at the landing,

the blue domes of the mosques, covered
inside with Iznik tiles,

and palaces, gleaming marble
by the blue waters of the straits;

The blue of entrance tickets,
passports, the uniforms
f the tourist police,

the blue of the nazar boncuk, talismans
against the evil eye
outside shops and houses, pinned up in taxicabs,

the blue eyes of the woman
in the bakery at Kanhca
who refused to look at me,

the blue of suspicion--

Glass and marble and blue carpet
at your parents' house
on Hekimler Sitesi,

the blue
of your father's paintings
of sea and sky, the world
in perpetual motion,

the Uzbek blue
of your mother's eyes inspecting
my dress, the rings on my fingers;

the blue-silver scales of fish
at the fish market,
blue parakeets in the cages
at the bird-market,

the blue of desire--

Yogurt so white
it's almost blue,
the blue of the swimming pool
I wanted to disappear in,

the blue of foreignness--

Blue steam in Sultanahmet
from the tops of the hamams,

the blue of Byzantine mosaics,
the blue face of Christ
at Aya Sofya,

blue tears of the disappointed lovers
in the miniatures,

Mejnun crying out among the animals
in a blue wilderness--

Wildflowers
along the highway
to Erzurum, and high in the Kackar
blue butterflies
in the alpine meadows,
and higher up, tiny poisonous blue berries,
the blue of the lake
we would not reach--

the blue of possibility--

The blue of secrets,
and the small bruises
along my arm,

the blue ink of a journal
written right to left
in a fluid Arabic script
like the waves along the Bosphorus,

the blue of betrayal

In Istanbul
at the Ismail Aga Cafe,
blue shadows beneath your eyes,
the blue veins on the back of your hands
cupped around a tulip-shaped glass

of tea, smoke
from passing busses and trucks
rising, fading away into the air
of another, impossibly clear morning,

our last, though everything
around us was blue, still blue--

I can't describe exactly how this poem makes me feel; the goose bumps I have on my arms and legs tell their own story of the power these words have over me. They shout and pull at me, grasping onto my imagination and I am there--I am amidst that crowded street, that cafe and blue is devestating my every sight. I crave to hone words into a masterpiece like this. Lillias Bever, your words have clung to my very spirit.

**
My thoughts on religion have been aplenty recently. I have been soaking up books like they are the ocean and I sand--my urge is to shovel as many books in front of me as I can; to be embedded within pages discussing theology and God, the existence or lack of...this song, Laughing With, of Regina Spektor's newest album, Far, is the most recent song to stop me in my tracks. It is not only melodically beautiful and appeasing to the ear, but the words are heavy and saturated with questions and thoughts and questions.