Istanbul

There is oh so much to write about, as always, but I'm sleepy and very full of delicious mother food. Seeing as how this is not conducive to insightful prose, I'm copying a relic of my Turkey journal below.

To the Gulls

You have a better view of the Bosphorus than I could ever imagine. Whirling and swirling, your two-thousand eyes are the eyes of a thousand winged dervishes. I'll bet you can see the world from all angles up there, complete with every detail.

Tell me, what patterns do the barges trace with their wakes? I want to know your aerial impression of the fishermen in yellow rain slickers lining the Galata Bridge; of the shaggy dogs curled up on the boardwalk with their noses under their tales; of the young men on motorcycles that shout as I run by; of the amiable fellows that roast corn on the cob and chestnuts beneath wide umbrellas, hawking at passersby; of the one lonely buoy that bobs a few hundred meters off-shore; of young couples strolling arm in arm, lost in one another's eyes; of the minarets that admire themselves in the gleaming waters that invented "turquoise;" of the little children drumming in the aisles of the ferry-boats that run between Europe and Asia; of the tea sellers and the winking old men that jog-shuffle with backpacks; of the stiff winds, grey skies, and snow flurries; of musical scores composed by city lights reflected in the sea; of ten-thousand red flags buffeted by the breeze; of the throngs of pedestrian traffic that blend into a parade of ants; of the days of heavy fog with air-brushed flaws and that perfect white sphere of a sun; of the toddlers with dirty faces selling cigarettes; of sunsets that set fire to the westward-facing windows; of Orhan Pamuk, his pen poised, elevated not quite high enough in his office: I want to know of it all.

Can you, from your high vantage point, piece together the post-cards? Is this enigma the reason you forgo sleep to spiral through the night by the eerie under-light of the city? Or is your endless flight a joyful dance?

I watch you circle, spelling out exclamation points and periods and question marks on a Shakespearean skyscape. The wind is picking up, and I dangle my feet over the sharp stones alongside the water. An orange cat is picking over some left-over crab claws, and a man with a gray face stands transfixed, reflecting himself off of the Bosphorus. A fog-horn booms deep in my chest, and I can suddenly sense the density of my bones.

Tell me, if I shook these words from my mind, would they turn into wings?