Just let it be...

I need closure. I need an end. I, I, I, I, yes, this is about me. Otherwise I'll lose it. I need to block the voices.

Every month, there is a stupid development in the news about Hrant. In his life, everyday, there were news from somewhere that killed him. He yelled many times that he was sick and tired. Of ignorance. Of irrelevancies.

Now, it's my turn. I'm tired of anything that is done to remember, to forget, to martyrize, to embellish him or his memory. I'm just tired.

That could easily be my ending. Of a story that has been told for so long, and became its own rival, its own nemesis. I don't love him because he was a great man. I never cared if he was right or wrong, or if he changed the word or solved the Armenian problem.

You need to get this. I loved him because he was him. A soul, a heart, who shared my existence for extensive periods of time. That's what I cherish. And that's all.

That could easily be my end. Don't want to share. Don't want to remember, don't want that pain. It's over. I want peace. I need closure. I don't want to hear loud voices.

Just peace.

And may the peace be with you my friend.

Just let us be...

Requiem

Grits Dreams

When waiting for the sun to come up in Savannah, Georgia, the ocean flutters with sounds. Sounds of seagulls, leaving fishing crafts and basically sea touching everything that surrounds it. These little voices you can only hear at the wake of a new day. As I have called it before, this "heaven on earth" has many vices. I leave these to travel writers, for me Savannah is a criss-cross beauty of streets and stately houses and ocean and surely the food.

As you drive down I-95, it all comes to a halt when you reach suburban Savannah. Southern charm takes you to her arms and nurture you with the best that corner of our world has to offer. And a local diner is always ready to serve you with your pre-day meal. And I hate to leave the convention and would like to order some pancakes, bacon'n eggs and of course grits.
We are in the south aren't we? If pancakes will soothe you and bacon and eggs will add flavor to your palate, grits will be the real soul searcher. I don't remember when it was the first time I ever ate grits. But since this first encounter, they became one of the pillar stones for me that represent Americana. A Native American food, grits are basically coarsely ground corn; a maize cereal. But so far the best form of corn I've consumed.

From the olden corner diners of Tennessee country land, to busy and crowded IHOP in Orlando city, grits are served all day to greet the occasional newbie southern style. It never gets cold in the south but if I have to quote a restaurateur from Luisiana, "hot and spicy takes the warmth out of your body, it cools your feelings". Same goes for grits for me. Before the dawn breaks, on this beautiful Savannah autumn day, a full serving of grits reminds me of a lazy spring breeze down here at the harbor.

The view proves me right. There are poor people in Savannah like everywhere in the States. But everyone in Savannah are stately. There is still time for the music. There is still time for the early Sunday crowds to fill the streets in their prettiest garments. On my table outdoors, a little bit of morning frost, and a big helping of grits vapor. A few seagulls around. And an occasional fishy smell from the docks. A perfect picture.

Soon, morning dwellers will surround me in this tiny forlorn diner. I'll hear cheerful children's voices with a familiar twang which I've grown to adore whenever I hear it. They will be forgetting their financial blues for a few hours of Savannah morn. They will not count the bills when they ask for the receipt. Orleans music will fill the loudspeakers that stand silently for now. The sea will go back to its silent murmur. People will be the voice of Savannah once more.

I will stay. With grits on my plate. To remind me the real taste of life where the dreams are true just an arms length away. Only if we stop whining about past and eat grits and catch a merry moment in life.

Re-islamization of Asia Minor

Ultra-nationalists are planning to conquer Asia Minor, all over again. Tomorrow, on October 1st, MHP, their major political organization is planning a Friday prayer session in Holy Virgin Cathedral at Ani, a sacred and antique settlement in what used to be Western Armenia. They claim 5000 people will join.

In the last couple months, Turkish state, dormant about the Christian heritage in Turkey, allowed two Eastern Orthodox masses to take place in Sumela Monastry near Trabizond and Holy Cross Church at Akhtamar Island in the Lake of Van. It looks like these two events have flamed a nationalist uproar in the country.

Today, two head figures of MHP, namely the leader Bahçeli and Kars Office Chief O. Akbas declared that “Anatolia (Asia Minor) will experience a new conquest by Muslim Turks against renewed desires for a Pontian Greek State and a western Armenia” in the lands that is Turkey now.

Tomorrow, upon obtaining the permits from local authorities, the followers of MHP are planned to pray together at Holy Virgin Cathedral at Ani near Kars. A wave of protests are expected from countries like Armenia and Greece. It’s a muslim custom to convert churches into mosques. There are a lot of examples of churches-turned-mosques all over Istanbul and elsewhere in Asia Minor.

Η Πόλις

Είπες· «Θα πάγω σ’ άλλη γή, θα πάγω σ’ άλλη θάλασσα,
Μια πόλις άλλη θα βρεθεί καλλίτερη από αυτή.
Κάθε προσπάθεια μου μια καταδίκη είναι γραφτή·
κ’ είν’ η καρδιά μου — σαν νεκρός — θαμένη.
Ο νους μου ως πότε μες στον μαρασμό αυτόν θα μένει.
Οπου το μάτι μου γυρίσω, όπου κι αν δω
ερείπια μαύρα της ζωής μου βλέπω εδώ,
που τόσα χρόνια πέρασα και ρήμαξα και χάλασα».

Καινούριους τόπους δεν θα βρεις, δεν θάβρεις άλλες θάλασσες.
Η πόλις θα σε ακολουθεί. Στους δρόμους θα γυρνάς
τους ίδιους. Και στες γειτονιές τες ίδιες θα γερνάς·
και μες στα ίδια σπίτια αυτά θ’ ασπρίζεις.
Πάντα στην πόλι αυτή θα φθάνεις. Για τα αλλού — μη ελπίζεις –
δεν έχει πλοίο για σε, δεν έχει οδό.
Ετσι που τη ζωή σου ρήμαξες εδώ
στην κώχη τούτη την μικρή, σ’ όλην την γή την χάλασες.

Κωνσταντίνος Π. Καβάφης (1910)