Happy Hindi Day! Yesterday...

Yeah, so you people make fun of my country on Thanksgiving (huh huh, do you have a lot of turkeys in Turkey?) so I'll pass on the favor and make fun of India because in Turkish, Hindi means turkey. Oh how clever of me.

I joined my boyfriend and his family for Thanksgiving this year. The joy of having an American boyfriend and friends; their families are always so generous and absolutely insist on inviting me over too. In high school, my best friend Kit's mom would cook a whole Thanksgiving feast in her apartment in Istanbul and she always had the best food so I've been kind of spoiled for all others but yesterday was delicious. We went over to Elliot's aunt's house and I'd met them on several earlier occasions so his cousins and I were already pretty comfortable around each other. Kung Fu Panda was on TV and we managed to get some quality viewing time as we waited for food. I did get to meet his uncle and grandmother for the first time, though. They were equally pleasant and welcoming and when we picked up his grandma and she came to the car carrying a pecan pie, well then. I followed her around much like cats at the fish market in Istanbul. I love pecan pie. It's my favorite. I just love pie. And cheesecake. Those are my top desserts and they had both. Elliot's cousin had made this delicious pumpkin spiced cheesecake with caramel and walnuts and there were cocoa cookies with white chocolate chips. But that was dessert. For food we had turkey, of course and it was delicious and I had a little bit of the white meat too even though I'm a dark meat girl through and through. You have my permission to lewd that up in any way you like. We also had a rib roast and stuffing (my favorite) and sweet potato puree and asparagus wrapped in bacon.

Miraculously, I didn't quite eat myself stupid. I was okay by the end of the day because today Elliot is taking me to the Afghan restaurant we went to the first time I came to visit his family and it has the best saffron chicken I've ever had in my life. Shh, don't tell my dad or my fellow Iranians.

Tonight I think we're meeting up with his old high school buddy for food (again) and at some point today I think I might coax him to drive me to an H&M. As my fashion blogger friends know the Lanvin and H&M collection premieres today and I've been really looking forward to it because all the pieces look amazing. Especially the Chanel-esque furry coat.



If the crowd look too daunting, since it is Black Friday, we'll avoid it but I'm going to take a peek at some point. I know every girl worth her weight in couture and online fashion will have a piece from the collection but I never buy anything that's "in fashion," just because it is, anyway. If I like something, I'll get it. Not because everyone has it. Like those Jeffrey Campbell Lita boots. They're not at all my style but I know at least three people who have them. Good for them, I admire people who can clomp around in heels all day. I'm good with my Converse sneakers and Iron Maiden Vans. Though I did recently switch it up and get a purple pair since my Maidens are falling apart and I always get black or grey shoes.

Other than that, I was just in New York visiting with my mommy and sister. My cousin and her family were also there (as well as another cousin who also attends NYU with my sister. Yes, I have a large family and we're together constantly). Now I know I've always come back from NY spewing vengeance and hate and crying out for the blood of the city, especially cab drivers. But I am allowed to change my mind. It was the best trip. Not only did I get to see family and have a long, fun lunch with them at this little Mexican place (La Rosa Mexicana by Colombus Circle. They had really good guacamole and my cousin expressed her wishes to have one of their succulent avocados. So I sneakily hi-jacked one as we were leaving. No one saw. I am a master thief) where we talked and I showed off my most prized "possession," my kitty (in pictures. I didn't actually bring her though I know some wouldn't put it past me. I mean, she's here in Virginia right now... yeah we drove 9 hours from Boston with the cat), but my mom and I met up with Carlito Dalceggio who I've talked about here. He's become sort of like a foster son to my mom because she has this bright, wonderful energy that draws people to her. Plus, he was just in Istanbul with her and got sick and stayed at our house. He has converted to Zeynepism. We went with him to an art gallery where he kind of had an "audition," and the owner really loved his stuff so hopefully that wiill come to some sort of fruition.



We also met up with my dad's cousin (I told you, large family) who hadn't seen us in 15 years. She had an art show too, which I unfortunately couldn't attend, but she came to lunch with us and Carlito the day I left.

My mother and I had dinner with Carlito and his girlfriend at some point. I was there from Thursday to Monday but the days kind of blur into each other. She's the sweetest, kindest girl ever and we all had the most, well I don't want to say profound because that sounds dumb and pretentious, so pretend I didn't say it but an evening along those lines. We went for drinks in Brooklyn at this cute little bar and then to dinner at a Vietnamese place which of course I loved as it is my favorite. I had pho. Surpirse. We just talked about EVERYTHING. From travel to dreams to food ("Our food had no taste in Poland, it's all potatoes!"), to weird connections between people. I was wearing my peacock print coat and they brought me a single peacock feather that Carlito had decorated with his signature acrylic, bright red dot.


His girlfriend had written a poem in beautiful calligraphy in her native language, Polish, for my mom (my mom gave her an evil eye bracelet the day before and she'd loved it) and Carlito had presented her with a small picture with a key attached. My mom collects keys. He had no idea, he just said he felt like the portrait needed something extra and the key seemed right. It was such a lovely night and won't get into too much detail because I'm saving the conversations for my novel. Man, I'm just filled with pretention with this post. But I was at a block and our night will translate so well into it. It was kismet. Oh, you might have actually seen his girlfriend. Her name is Magdalena Frackowiak. She's a pretty amazing model. Her modeling ice queen shots are the polar opposite of her personality.





My mom is actually off to Montreal today to see Mercan who I've also talked about in the same post with Carlito and more so here. He and Carlito did the opening of the Music House and he's another "spiritual" friend of my mom's now. I swear, when she's 90 she'll have reached guru status.

I also met up with a few friends. People might raise their eyebrows at the concept of an, "Internet friend," but in this day and age, when so many of us have blogs and websites and rely on connections through them, why is it still weird? I mean sure, watch out for them pedophiles, but I think a few of my closest friends now are those I've met through reading about their lives and vice versa. Three of these ladies came to stay with me last year for a couple days and I hadn't seen them since. So, last Friday two, Beth and Chelsey, came by to my mom's hotel where we met up at the bar where we treated ourselves to Bellinis (Proseco and peach juice. Let's send this into pretension over-drive because though it was good, I prefer them in Venice. Hey, I can be picky, I'm not a sweet alcoholic drink person anyway) before heading out to an improv show and a few other places. I love how my friends identify me with liking metal. I do, it's true, but rather than laughing at me, most support me and want to show me a good time by taking it into consideration. Like my best friends treating me to Kuma's corner, the heavy metal buger place, in Chicago. I love this. Chelsey said there was a metal bar in Brooklyn so we ended up in Williamsburg at 12 at night in this most excellent little basement bar, Duff's. It was absolutely wall-papered in posters and fliers and had a nice little back room with booths. It was so empty. We definitely got stared at by the few patrons but the friendly bar lady offered us free shots on the house because, "we looked cold." The night may have been disappointing on some counts (for my friend) but for me it was so fun just getting to hang out with the girls and even getting to know them a bit better. No more awkwardness for us.


There was a third lady in the group that visited me last year and she and I met up for drinks on anther night. I think my family and the way we function amused Hilary to no end. We were in the hotel bar again because it's comfy and hey, charge it to the room! But my sister came by, my cousin came by, then she came by again with her boyfriend and another friend, then my sister came by once more and Hilary basically met half my immediate family and their acquaintances right there.

I did some shopping too because I'm a girl and we have to. But I mostly got books and make-up. So my intellectual side and my superficial side were pretty balanced I'd say. I got Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil because I always thought I'd read it but my friend actually had and told me about it and I'd seen the movie so I figured it was time to go through it myself. I also got Modoc, it's about this boy and an elephant and it's the true story of how they went from Germany to India to a circus in New York in the '40s and all about their adventures and friendship. I'm sure it'll make me cry but it was written by one of the first Hollywood trainers to use love and care when handling animals (so hopefully I won't get all upset by animal cruelty. Yes, I like fur and leather and I eat meat but you kick a dog and I will stomp on your testicles till kingdom come) it'll be something interesting to read on the 16 hour flight to Hong Kong.

Oh yeah, Elliot and I are off to Hong Kong this coming Wednesday. Wacky adventures to follow. But seriously, I'm looking forward to another weird trip with him (we went to Japan a couple years ago and we're still boring our friends to death with stories), pissing him off by quoting Cassandra from Wayne's World every time we catch sight of Kowloon Bay, ("Oh my GOD! I WAS BORN IN KOWLOON BAY,"), meeting up with my first RA Nikki (who I haven't seen since freshman year), and eating in one of the foremost food capitals of the world. Yeah, everything comes back to food doesn't it?

Et Voila! The answer to all our problems.

Jellyfish have apparently evolved to the point of immortality.

From The Eagle:

Researchers have documented the first immortal animal, a jellyfish species called Turritopsis nutricula. The species has been seen to reverse its aging and revert to its its earlier polyp stage, periodically restarting its lifecycle. The rejuvenation relies on transdifferation, the transformation of one mature (non-stem, or “differentiated”) cell type into another. All evidence suggests that Turritopsis can repeat this process indefinitely, meaning that it will never die as a consequence of aging, ever. Researchers suggested that studying the Turritopsis could lead to breakthroughs in reversing the human aging process.

“Senescence” is the scientific term for aging, and the cellular degradation that accompanies it. Most biologists attribute senescence in humans and other animals to “telomeres”, which are tiny caps on the ends of each chromosome. Telomeres protect DNA from being corrupted, but during every repetition of the cell cycle, they become incrementally shorter. Eventually the telomeres become so short that cells cannot divide at all, a point known as the Hayflick Limit.

The term “negligible senescence” describes organisms that do not show signs of age related degradation, and includes animals such as the sturgeon, lobster and giant tortoise.

With the goal of emulating such natural longevity, English transhumanist Aubrey De Grey founded the S.E.N.S, or “Strategies for Engineered Negligible Senescence” in 2002 to research medical strategies for elongating the human lifespan. You may be able to guess that they haven’t quite got it down yet.


Well! Time to integrate jellyfish DNA with mine, be right back.

Task 27: Words

I like to read historic fiction novels. The Amelia Peabody series is one such example. It's by Elizabeth Peters and revolves around a strong-minded woman in Victorian England and her family of Egyptologists and reluctant detectives. They're filled with mystery and grandeur and coy loves scenes, it is Victorian England after all, and best of all, mostly take place in Egypt amidst tombs and pyramids and excavations. I secretly wanted to be an archaeologist when I was younger because I was so enamored by Egypt and ancient cities and cultures (though, most of the "interesting" old civilizations are located in extremely hot climates so I doubt I would've lasted long in the field) so these books appeal to that side of me, as well as the side that appreciates an affected style of writing that suits the genre and time.

Only the book on the bottom right is part of this series, she has several others hence the other books.

General fictionalizations of historic events and people just appeal to me. I started reading the Memoirs of Cleopatra by Margaret George and the only reason I stopped in the middle of the 1152 page novel was because I moved and the book got packed up and I didn't get around to finishing it, though, I kind of know how it ends. Mythology and history appeal to me because they're just such excellent fodder for stories. The Ottoman Empire is a new(er) interest of mine. We never studied it in school so all I know comes from independent reading and the most intriguing aspect of it, of course, is the harem and women of the sultan and pashas. There aren't that many well written factual books on the subject, I've searched for them and the best I coud find were basically just text-book style writing; bare facts and deductions. I like there to be some flair in the sources I read. Which is why I could never study history because a lot of the books are just too dry for me. Though, my friend who studied it in college and peripherally in grad school has a knack for finding the interesting from a pile of boring. Like, did you know Chairman Mao would never brush his teeth? He would just drink green tea.

This is why historical fiction is a favorite genre of mine. It has all the interesting aspects of history and events that happened in the past, along with a creative twist. The Sultan's Harem by Colin Falconer was another example of this and the first harem-related fiction I read. It was all about Hurrem Sultan, the conniving concubine that got the sultan of the Ottoman Empire to actually marry her. No one knows her motives for sure, there are no sources that detail this but the creative liberties the author, along with reasonable hypotheses, took with the tale were both engrossing and on some level, believable. I picked up another such book yesterday, Harem by Asli Sancar.

Within the first 20 pages I realized this book was possibly the worst book I've ever read. There is no subtext, no deeper writing, and no style to speak of. The characters' thoughts and emotions are splashed about like it's going out of style and the prose is not only stilted, it's boring. There's nothing redeeming about it, it is simply a badly-written book. I used to have a thing about reading books all the way through no matter what but in recent years, I just stop. There's no reason to waste my time when the author can't even be bothered to employ writing techniques you learn in middle school (i.e. showing not telling; allowing the actions and feelings of a particular event or character come through organically by way of description, rather than just throwing it in the reader's face straight off the bat. That's lazy writing and a sure example of someone who has no business writing a novel), and frankly, it kind of makes me angry that the person managed to get this edited, sold, published, and distributed when it's evident there's no reason for anyone to read it.

This might sound cruel but it's just what I think. Not everyone can be a writer. For the love of God, I write in this thing everyday and want to be a published writer one day but under no circumstances do I consider myself a writer. Being a writer is too big a deal for me to ever take it lightly or not treat it seriously.

I will probably give this Harem book a few more chapters but really, I've made up my mind.

Which brings me to task 27, read Anna Karenina. You're supposed to read the classics in high school. Well, since my high school was run by crazed Marxists who believed happy endings were bourgeous (this has irked me for YEARS. I like happy endings! Who cares if they're trite? When it comes down to the bare bones, books and movies are entertainment. Why should I waste my time watching something that will devastate or upset me when I can be happy? Why would I write something that's horribly depressing when I can lift someone's spirits? They're escapes from reality after all. Give me one person that would rather escape a dreary life by subjecting themselves to something like Waiting For Godot, and I will show you a sociopath). So we read Margaret Atwood's The Handmaiden's Tale, a painfully large helping of Brecht and Beckett (GAH!), and okay, Madame Bovary by Flaubert which is counts as a classic. And in 9th grade we read George Orwell's Animal Farm and Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities which I do appreciate because there are always so many references to Madame Defarge even today and without that book, I would never get them. In French class we read Sartre and de Beauvoir (both of whom I'm kind of turned off by because I have enough crazy in my head without having to take in account various theories of life having no meaning), and Camus and Malraux. At the time, I squirmed and complained and whined and as a result, still have a certain block against the French, but at least now I can see that it was literature. Not any I'd seek out on my own but recognized literature.

I decided to embark on my own education in terms of literature because reading The God of Small Things in IB English just didn't cut it for me. This is partly why I joined a book club in Boston, I can make new friends, enjoy a night out, and read current literature, and why I decided to have reading Anna Karenina as one of my tasks. Except, Anna's kind of boring me. The story is interesting and I'm not having trouble over the names as most people seem to, I got used to them, but it's just very slow going. It doesn't take 18 pages to explain why a woman would be mad that her husband is sleeping with the nanny. But though I've stopped for now, I kind of want to see this book through just to understand why it's so lauded and why it deserves the title of classic. Why does something count as literature? To me, it because the combined efforts of story-telling and the actual story make for a memorable read but I can't even begin to comprehend why Galileo would be considered a classic play. If it's groundbreaking subject matter sure but um, the heliocentric theory was introduced waaay before the play.

In between, I have other books I want to read to. I recently read 1984 and I really liked it (as opposed to Animal Farm), and I have Stranger in a Strange Land on deck as well. I admit, that's mostly because of the Iron Maiden reference, though really they're referencing the book and not the other way 'round! I've recently gotten more in to sci-fi, and I already had my tendency for the supernatural, so I have a couple of Stephen King novels in my future as well. I tried reading IT in high school but lost interest but I really enjoy his short stories so I think The Dark Tower series might be a better fit for me.

Yesterday I also got The Flea Palace by Elif Safak which is apparently my mom's friend's (the one who accompanied us to see her and Mercan Dede in Belgium) favorite.

I truly do love reading books. I have since I was little and I don't know if it's the fact that it was high school and annoying teachers that affected my dislike of every book deemed quality literature and classics then (I seem to have an attitude for every book they assigned. But come on! HAPPY ENDINGS ARE BOURGEOIS? WHO SAYS THAT? And to a teenage girl for crying out loud!), or just that I didn't like them. I always felt like kind of poseur because all writers refer to other writers, classic ones at that, and I've never read Hemmingway or Faulkner and I didn't care much for Catcher in the Rye. Maybe I'm not pretentious enough, I mean, my favorite authors are Roald Dahl and Christopher Moore and rock stars that hit rock bottom and publish their exploits. Nobody would call them class literature but... I might. I think Matilda is a classic kid's book (oh yes, and there are the many sub-genres of kinds of classics; kids, American, European etc.) and that everyone should read Lamb. But, if it helps me feel less like someone posing as "writer" then I will take my time and get to the books that have been deemed classic.

I promise, I still will have opinions on them and I won't like them just because they're well known. Ahem, Satanic Verses; couldn't stand the ratio of 30 metaphors: 1 page. But I do have The Ground Beneath Her Feet waiting on a shelf back in Boston. See, in terms of books and writing, I'm willing to give second and sometimes third chances.
As for my book club, I'll be missing the next two dates but I will be reading the books because I want to see if Margaret Atwood is actually a good read with Lady Oracle, rather than the kill-myself-authoress. Not to mention Lavinia by Ursula K. Le Guin which is a reimagining of Lavinia's life; the second wife of Aeneas from Virgil's Aeneid. It's Greek mythology reimagined, starring (my favorite) a heroine, and I was never as familiar with Aeneas' story as with all the other Greek heroes so I'm looking forward to it and maybe doing some pre-reading as well! My boyfriend is actually bringing the book with him when he comes to visit me here in Istanbul.

Anybody have any other suggestions?

Shut up Belinda Carlisle, heaven isn't a place on earth.

Let's see where were we? Crisis of faith, that's it. Yes, riddle me this universe; if everything has a reason, why, oh why, would it strike you as "the right thing to do" to take an 18 year old boy who hasn't even started living yet? What possible explanation could there be to dish out this kind of pain for his friends, for his close ones, for those who knew him peripherally, and for his parents. His parents, I ask you. What, if I may be so blunt, is your fucking problem?

I have my issues with death. That's putting it mildly. It freaks me the hell out would be closer to the truth. But still just barely grazing the surface. When it happens for no reason, to a kid for God's sake, well, I can't help but understand those who turn that previous exclamation around and forsake God. I don't know why this affected me so much. But sometimes these events do. When I was in high school a friend's older sister died. This past week one of my sister's closest friends, a boy who I remember being 14 and giggling over Chinese food in our dining room, passed away in his home. I cling firmly to the belief that everything happens for a reason because I think my world would crumble if I didn't but this happened and what was faith supported on an already shaky foundation took a pretty brutal beating. Let's just say that particular metaphysical structure is no longer standing.

I have never seen my sister cry like that. That alone started ripping up my insides but the amount of pain and loss that filtered through various sources in the face of this event basically broke me down too. Which is what kind of set off this entry. I don't sleep enough or at all anyway and that night, I stayed up all night. What made it worse was my mom and I, along with another lady- my mom's friend, were off to Brussels at 8 am the next morning so I had to be up at 6. I finally just gave up on everything and watched the glow-in-the-dark hands of my watch creep until the moment when my mom softly knocked on my door.

Then we went to Brussels.

Random? Yeah, I know. However, we had our reasons. Mercan Dede, the musician and artist I've previously discussed (here) had a concert there and since my mommy is his bestest buddy, he invited us to come attend. Here's the brief description of what it was from the website:

To celebrate two of the European Capitals of Culture 2010, Essen/Ruhr and Istanbul, the Goethe-Institut is pleased to present a unique gala concert, performed by the Mercan Dede Ensemble and featuring three very special guests.
For “Sounds of Love”, Mercan Dede brings his eclectic ensemble together with three artists from the fields of literature, music and dance, creating a blend of different disciplines, traditions and artistic styles. The best-selling author Elif Shafak will read excerpts from her recent novel, “Love”, while the young musician Karsu Dönmez and the dancer Kadir “Amigo” Memis will add their unique touches to this magical event.

It sounded like such a wonderful opportunity to see him and to hear his music and not to mention, my mom's friend is probably Elif Safak's biggest fan. I'm not kidding. She's read everything by her, attended Q & A's, gifts the books to everyone, and she's basically her muse. Elif Safak is the author I've also previously written about; she wrote the tale of Rumi and Sufism and sort of inspired me to learn more about Sufis.

After a sleepless night, we were at the airport and in the midst of my mental crisis of faith, my mom and her friend giggled and laughed and whispered and talked and exclaimed all the way there. I swear, they were like a couple of teenagers. Teenagers high on that gas they give you at the dentist. When we got there they couldn't stop laughing at everything and anything. They shrieked and guffawed and had so much fun after a while I think my brain just couldn't fight them anymore and just kind of bemusedly took them in(at this point it was putting up a mighty battle with everything else swirling in there too). But I mean it, they laughed. At. Everything. The hotel name (Amigo. Really, the Amigo Hotel in Brussels, okay that's pretty ridiculous), the fact that a huge, blacked out van came to pick us up at the airport, the giant wooden fruits in our bedrooms as art, and figurines of Tin Tin and his dog Minou trapped in glass cases in our bathrooms. Did you know Brussels was the land of Tin Tin? I did not. I hate Tin Tin. I hate his stupid yappy dog, I hate the twin professors, and I hate that I can't remember any of his cases and story lines because I was so wrapped up in hating French and hating learning French I blocked them all. They might have been interesting, I remember he went to Egypt but nooo, he had to be annoying and French, sorry Belgian, and whiny and I had to hate him. We found the Tin Tin Emporium. It was filled with Tin Tin. My mom and her friend also dislike Tin Tin. And he was EVERYWHERE.

Needles to say, we did not buy anything there. I did however get me some delicious steak and pommes frittes and about a suitcase full of chocolate. Hey, it has endorphins, it was for a good cause; to make me feel happier.

Since we were in Belgium, I insisted they take to get beer. Before the concert, we ended up at a weird little cafe restaurant that I found, and finally, after an entire day of me stubbornly demanding beer, we sat down and enjoyed some. They giggled and laughed all through it. First when my mom's friend ordered the same beer as the table next ours and the bewildered waiter told her it wasn't beer at all. Then, when we got our beers (she finally decided to take whatever the table on our other side was having and I randomly picked one from the menu) hers was so thick and dark and heavy it was like Guinness with bread soaked in it and mine was this weird, honey-ale. My mom had coffee and everyone, including the waiters, watched us snort and giggle over beers and take pictures. As we left, I think the waiter was shaking his head and muttering to himself.

And then came the concert. So my whole big thing on this trip was that I wanted an answer. A sign, a clue, anything to help put my mind at ease and calm the roaring in my brain and behind my eyes. It was beautiful. The music with the backdrop of Istanbul and the small segments with guest artists; a modern dance/breakdancer and a girl singing and playing the piano, as well as dervishes that took some creative liberties with their spinning. The first set of dervishes included a man and a woman and the girl's hair was long and uncovered so it spun with her and she had two layers of skirts which undulated up and down and in the dark, the man's gowns glowed and it was the most peaceful, hypnotizing thing ever. I love watching dervishes, they make me feel calm and I could've watched just them for hours. Their movements were so smooth and fluid that you wouldn't get dizzy no matter how focused you were on them.

Then came Elif Safak's reading. I felt my mom's friend breathe deeply next to me. All the stuff going on stage was pretty heavy and it tested the emotions because since there were no words, they had to use movement and images to express the main point of the concert; love. Ms. Safak read two parts from her book. One was about finding love and the second was about losing it. The first part already twisted something in me because part of the reading was the story of Leyla and Mecnun. It's a love story about the deep connection between these two people (brief digression: also why Eric Clapton chose that particular name when writing "Layla" for Patty Boyd) and the fact she kept saying my name in conjunction to this happy, content woman who was filled with love was kind of jarring. I can't remember the second section word for word and I don't want to go hunt for the book right now but the simple message of that particular part was this; though you may lose love and it might hurt more than you would believe, it doesn't end, it doesn't go away. When someone leaves us, dies, that same someone in another name and another body in another place is born because the soul is forever. After she finished the dervishes came out again, this time there were four and they did the traditional whirling, one arm raised up to take from above and one reaching down to symbolize giving below. In the midst of this, a little boy came out. His jacket had his name, my youngest cousin's name, printed on it, and he joined in the spinning, as the middle, the center to the four grown ups. He turned and turned, keeping his balance and making sure his feet were doing it correctly; one anchoring him down as the other guided his movements. He bookended the readings, he was new life. He made me cry.

After this we were pretty drained and deservedly imbibed in some wine at the reception. After the general free-loaders left, we got to stand around and chat with Mercan and the pianist who was the sweetest 19 year old girl. Pushy stage mom though, gah. When he brought over Elif Safak my mom's friend almost fainted. She turned from this confident, sensible woman into a meek little girl in front of her hero. She got to talk to her and so did I, and apparently Mercan had told Elif about how her book inspired me to maybe study Sufism and how my job is the same as her main characters'. It was a such a good, pure connection of people and we even gave them a ride back to their hotel, the NH Atlanta, which my hilarious mother decided sounded like a space shuttle. It kind of does. At least the huge black van came in handy. We all felt pretty giddy by the end of the night and it wasn't even all the wine. Heads racing we slept for maybe 4 hours, if that, before heading back home to Istanbul.

I guess I got my sign. First from that last part of the concert. Secondly, on the plane back I was reading a book called, "Holy Cow," by Sarah MacDonald. She's an Australian journalist living in India because of her husband's job, and feeling a little lost, she decides to explore the country and its beliefs. She covers them all from Hinduism to Buddhism and even Judaism and Christianity in India. Now I thought this was just going to be a silly, fun book about a foreigner in India surviving. I quickly realized that wasn't it and nearing the end, she winds up in Pakistan with Sufis. In one sentence she described Sufism as the Kabbalah of Islam. It's a lot of mysticism and it celebrates God through the belief that love is what drives us all, as expressed by poetry and music and dance. Though, traditional Muslims shun and even forbid it. This is what drew me to Sufism. It's the worship of life through love. My religion, Islam, is not in very good standing with the world and it gets tiring trying to defend something when there's so much evidence to damn it. Who freakin' bans a section of your own religion, come on. Let's open the eyes a little, remove the blinders... It's especially hard because I have a boyfriend that spent a year in Iraq and got to witness the abhorrent actions of people who claim they're propelled by God and religion. He even turned a skeptical eye to my newfound interest in Sufism because he said he met some not so nice ones. It's hard to connect these beliefs with actual actions and people who sincerely think they're doing what their God expects of them. I kind of empathized with the author because she had nowhere left to turn because with every faith comes all the hypocrisy and I kind of feel like that too, especially with recent events. I grew up in Turkey in a Muslim family and in a country that used to pride itself on upholding the Muslim beliefs of welcoming and hospitality. But even that's getting warped and the world doesn't see us as an example, it sees, well, to put it lightly the villains in Arnold Schwarzenegger's True Lies. Though I do love that movie, "psychotic terrorist," is generally not what I like to associate myself, let alone my belief system, with.

Maybe this is my sign? I like getting notes from the universe and the fact that some are provided give me faith I guess. It could be coincidence but so what? I can choose what I want to read into. Even if it's literally a book I'm reading. Or music I'm listening to.

Every summer I find a new band and record to obsessively listen to and fall in love with. It just works out that it happens every summer. Last night, I stumbled across this year's winners while I was out browsing in cyber space. I love Scandinavian sleaze rock. Hardcore Superstar, Backyard Babies, Hellacopters, all those punk/metal/glam bands from northern Europe who know how to write a catchy riff. It's probably my favorite genre and I was looking for more when I found Crazy Lixx and Wig Wam and maybe Crashdiet (who my boyfriend had recommended a couple weeks ago but I just got around to checking out). The songs made my heart stop. They were pure, musical love. I loved every silly lyric and inane chorus, I enjoyed their terrible band names and cliched double entendre song titles, and I spent all night listening to them over and over again instead of fretting about being awake. This is what makes me happy.

One of the albums' name is New Religion. I think that's a sign right there. Not a subtle one either.

Haha, I guess music is my religion. Which makes sense given what best illustrates the celebration of Sufism.

Today, i took my grandmother to get her radiation treatments. The usual group of people were there and by now we all know each other by sight. Except a new lady. She's a little elderly and a little nervous but she hides it behind friendliness. She asks everyone why they're there and blesses them and even tries to talk to the Libyan women who don't speak Turkish and don't want to have anything to do with anyone. But this lady never lets up. She and a regular get in to a whole big conversation about how good energy is what everyone needs. They agree that you can't let all this stuff get you down, keep your chin up, your energy positive, and God will be good. It's humbling to see these women who have to put up with so much shit sit there and be in perfectly happy moods praising Allah for their good fortune. I do believe in the power of energy but sometimes it seems too good to be true. If you wish it, it will happen. I guess I need to trust the universe a bit more before I can give in so completely. I like in Turkish how we have the words gecmis olsun for any malady or event. It means let it pass but more eloquent. When my grandmother came back out, I wish it to both women as we leave and add a silent plea to my God and to my universe to take care of them and my anneanne (grandma) too.

We drove on the same road back we've taken probably over 20 times now. But today's the first time I noticed a particular sign at the side of the road. No joke, it said Mevlanakapi; Mevlana gate/door/passage.
My mommy and Mercan.

Canan abla and Elif Safak('s profile).

The Last Living Slut: Born in Tehran, Bred Backstage by Roxana Shirazi

So, my job is a reader at a literary agency. I read scripts and books and write summaries along with comments and suggestions and analyze everything from the writing to the format and get paid next to nothing, but that's not the point. Anyway, because of this, I tend to read books critically even when it's not job readings. While I was reading The Last Living Slut... I kept slipping into job mode and I think I'll write a review of it in said mode, albeit more relaxed. After all, I love groupie stories and she's out there claiming to be their new queen. This is also for the vintage groupies community I'm part of back on LJ. Though, I feel I should issue a caution notice for others who read this blog. So tread lightly.

Basically, she is an abused, messed up young woman. She had no father, hence no father figure, when she was younger, got molested and fingered by two different men (a boarder and a neighbor) between the ages of 5-7, and her stepfather beat the shit out of her all through her teenage years. I don't want to get to Freud-ish but man, does that sound like the type of woman who'll have healthy relationship with men and/or sex? She writes that she knows the stuff the men, especially the boarder who lived with them when she was 5, did were bad but she keeps trying to make the point that she liked it even if she knew it meant "she was going to hell." She says she went voluntarily to him, but the neighbor basically raped her. I don't know, it seems too much like she's trying to excuse their behavior, not unheard of with victims who don't know any better, which is reprehensible. The mens actions not hers, she was just a child for God's sake.

She moved to England when the shit storm of Islam, excuse me Islamic Revolution, broke out in Iran and she was bullied and harassed and finally found solace from her crappy life by dancing in strip clubs. I believe she's about 37 years old as she says she was 11 in 1984 when she moved to England. She went to university and was always at the top of her class but had her secret shady life on the side. She didn't lose her virginity until 24, which seems rather hard to believe but she doesn't count her encounters with girls, and then turned to rock'n'roll after her virginity taking night with Stuart Cable from Stereophonics.

Her first backstage encounter was with the singer of Bullet for my Valentine. Oh dear. I am a metal snob, I admit it but come on lady. Though, she gets his attention by suggesting a threesome with her and her 17-year-old girlfriend and then they get in a fight with the band manager/some girlfriend and Roxana has to be pinned down so she won't kill her. Which is pretty metal, let's be honest. Velvet Revolver makes her all fangirl crazy which is kind of sweet and she hears groupies complaining about how they can't get to the band because their wives and gfs are there and is happy she isn't desperate and pathetic like them. Good girl. She's very into making the roadies happy though and likes to giggle and make out with other girls. Most of her rock star encounters so far are just blow jobs and watching others and not getting involved herself. She helps Steven Adler pee though which I guess would be weird but I've read too many groupie stories to give that a second thought. It just seems kind of, well, sad. It's all very well if this took place in the 80s but it happened in like 2001. Even the musicians themselves know they're way pst their use-by dates and the new bands just don't have "it." What seems all dirty fun and shocking in 1982 with Motley Crue and The Dirt, is just lame now because okay, it might be the same stuff over and over again but it's the same stuff over and over again. At some point you have to realize you're becoming a parody of yourself. Off the subject but I have to admit I love The Dirt. It's so crass and rude and heartfelt at the same time.

So off she goes with Lori, her little pet, and they hook up with the Towers of London whom I've never heard of so they can't be that big a deal though they look pretty enough. Except her encounter is basically date rape. She's drugged up, drunk, feeling sick, and basically throwing up on the guy she doesn't even want to be with but lets him just to get it over with. Oh honey, no.

And then she has a seizure.

Getting past that, she hangs out quite a bit with the Towers boys, illustrates her penchant for orgies, but when she starts getting feelings decides to go corrupt a teenage band called Kid Ego. This is where I laughed out loud; when describing the band's glam looks she says one particular member looked more like he got shouted at by the donut rather than the devil. Come on, that is a great line for a faux emo glam kid with baby fat. So she decides to have sex with a sixteen-year-old. And everyone else. I'm still waiting to be shocked. Her story isn't any different from any other rock star's except she's at the receiving end and is smart enough to pick up a pen and capitalize on it. Yes, she's in charge of her sexuality but meh, even though she believes she's above all the "beginner," groupies, she still acts like an entitled bitch which isn't all that different when you're observing backstage behavior.

There are the girly moments especially when she hates herself for getting feelings, and there are the gross parts where she asks a band to urinate on her, but it's just like what her idea of a groupie should be and when she goes after it, she just gets disappointed. So she does the school stuff and then falls in love with Dizzy Reed, it's all sunshine and daisies for a while, then an abortion happens, he treats her like shit and just like any rock'n'roll love story, she tries to kill herself. Well, she obviously fails but the way she writes leading up to it is so genuine and yes a little horrifying. It's like any other girl experiencing heartache and stupidity. She has an abortion and tries to forget about it and Dizzy with sex and rock stars. It's her coping mechanism and with the way she's lived her life so far, it makes sense. But there is actual shame there, she's not a brazen whore. Honestly, I'd question her humanity if she wasn't affected by bleeding from the procedure while some dude tries to nail her. This is the judgmental side of me that truly questions just how in grasp of sexuality she claims to be though. On a side note to anyone: ALWAYS USE PROTECTION. She does refer back to her family and her mom so it's not like she's a totally broken result of her life, her mommy actually is the one who convinces her to go through with it because it's the right choice. She has family and connection, it'd be pretty fucking difficult to be Iranian and not because we don't let family very far out of our loving/cloying embrace. But the way she clings to the idea of letting him, even if she loves him, still just a man, down or making him mad by having a child, when he can't even pick up the phone to respond to her, is just, no. You are not a strong, confident woman no matter what you believe, not in this state.

Which is further confirmed because she can't be described as anything but a mess as we go further along. She does the same groupie shit but her head is so far up her ass that she kind of comes off as a desperate hooker rather than a sedate rock queen. her subjects are washed up men who she doesn't give a shit about but obsesses nonetheless. That, to me, is not empowering. The whole Dizzy debacle has unscrewed her, no pun intended, and you just pity her rather than cheer on her conquests. Which I kind of approve of; Faster Pussycat, Pretty Boy Floyd, and Enuff Z'Nuff. There's even humor in her getting cockblocked because all the guys are married and Matt Sorum doing one-handed push-ups to show how not bad for a 46-year-old he is after a rather long session with her and her friend. Yes, we've reached the part of the book that's dirty and depraved and she loves it, she's having fun, and if I were to analyze it, I'd say it's her mode of control, to get off with as many people at the same time as she can. But eh, good for her if she's having fun but walking around with no underwear on your period and showing off the bloodstains on your white dress isn't badass and woohoo female statement of power. It's just kind of grow up, will you? Which is why, after a slight breakdown and various identity crises, when she meets the god of depravity, Nikki Sixx, she's let down. He likes gardening and early nights and is a businessman, not a cock-rocking animal to her disappointment. Well sweetheart guess what, he grew up. It's not a terrible thing to grow up. You can still be yourself which is what people seem to fear most about this whole growing up shebang but with her last couple chapters, our leading lady seems to realize this too.

Summary aside, the book itself is not very well written. Now don't get me wrong, it's not badly written either. I understand her Iranian penchant for trying to be flowery and descriptive with the language but it just doesn't come naturally and doesn't really flow on the page. I kept catching myself skimming her descriptives just because all right, I get it. You come from an exotic land of ripe pomegranates and figs and rice and lay on your silky carpets awash in color. See? How many of you would read that sentence over and over again? She seems to have a clear voice and once she gets past trying to be an "author" and actually writes, it's easier to swallow (hah.

Yes, there are some things that will raise the eyebrows of casual readers but for those of us with tastes that err on the band girl side, it's nothing that'll really shock you to the core. I don't think she's a dirty whore like some people have said and I don't think she can be lambasted for her actions while Patty Boyd or Bebe Buell and their ilk are treated like royalty. Every era has its own rules and ethics and she just got the tail-end of one that was dying out. Sex isn't something she's in control of as much as she'd like to believe but when you're messing that much with people and minds, how much control do you think you have? Her title is both earned but also not deserving but it would've been interesting to see it adjacent to the school career she keeps mentioning in passing. Maybe her feminism would have more weight to it if we could've actually seen her in a school environment because she has the brains and education but all we get is the backstage bimbo which she seems perfectly happy to put on as her identity.

Her exploitation of her Iranian roots and the deliberation she uses sex to highlight it is the most laughable part of the book though. This is the section that'll have people saying she's deliberately trying to be edgy and I agree. Yes, she may be educated and verbose but tying in a sexual awakening to a country in turmoil and blatant statutory rape with lyrical poetry is not romantic. Come on. These are tactics pretentious know-nothings with not a story to their name resort to, to make themselves appear worldly. She have the advantage of being worldly, there is no need to dress it up.

And finally, yes we get it. You like sex. This story isn't about how she likes sex though, and I've read it. How can one expect to be taken seriously as a voice of feminism and sexuality when instead of trying to get your point across, you slap on this title and half-heartedly try to stand by it? Can't blame people for sneering at false controversy when you market yourself that way.

And on a last, pseudo-patriotic note, WOMAN LEAVE YOUR EYEBROWS ALONE. The plucked thin and tattooed look is very in with Persian ladies, especially those who have left menopause in the dust, but it never, ever, never looks good. WE HAVE EXCELLENT EYEBROWS. Get rid of the unibrow, pluck the stray hairs, but leave the general shape of it alone.

Task 12: Shanti/Ashtangi, Day 4

Before we left for India, we realized we were going to be there in time for Holi and I got so very excited. I've always wanted to witness this festival when the entire country takes part in what's basically one giant paint-ball fight. All the pictures I've seen show such gorgeous pinks and purples and greens and I'm a sucker for color. I might not veer too far off from my uniform of black, white, grey, and blue but I abolsutely adore surrounding myself with color and Holi always looked so magical and wonderful, I just wanted to take part in it. And I got to! The hotel organized a small get together on the grounds for guests with food and drinks and live music and dancing and everyone wore white so we could smack each other with the colored powder. This little boy was having so much fun pelting everyone and when my mom chased him and "played Holi" he was so overjoyed that someone was actually indulging him. It was really fun and the Maharaja, his mother, his son, and his daughter even came down and greeted people and played too. It was sort of a bittersweet moment watching his son, this handsome 35 year old man, smiling and enjoying the day though. We found out he used to be the nation's polo poster boy and would even coach national teams but an accident left him paralyzed and it's only recently that he's started making public appearances again. He had to re-learn how to do everything and it really hit my mom and dad hard I think. We bought a coffee table book all about Umaid Bhawan and the Maharaja's history and family and just pored over it. It's really cool though, several Maharanis of the state of Rajasthan were Turkish!

We even got interviewed by the local news. Hah, the reporter said I had a pretty name and asked us what we thought of the whole event. Well, we of course told him we loved it and when he observed that we weren't quite covered in paint my mom smashed a handful of pink powder in my face. On camera. Yes, we Hamedis vacation with style. The first time we all came to India, my parents had a Sanskrit wedding ceremony and got published in the newspaper.

I abolsutely loved Jodhpur. It was hot and I don't do too well with heat (it bothers me more than others and I just get cranky and miserable) but it was just a dry heat and I felt I could sit under that tent and watch everyone play Holi all day. And as a bonus, I finally was able to go to the bathroom! Not to be too crass but for some reason I had certain, um, bloackage and man, finally unleashign my bowels almost had me singing that Flashdance song, "What A Feeling."

It's funny how things sort of come together isn't it? I re-discovered my love of Madonna and suddenly she was everywhere from a new CD and DVD to having an episode of Glee dedicated to her. I'm writing my India entries now and I find out about this great opportunity to write a script about it. I love when the universe just lines up like that and it seemed to do it perfectly right as I got off the plane in Delhi and just listened to "Shanti/Ashtangi," as we drove to the hotel. I felt it was appropriate as it was going to be the title for these entries without a question. But there were two other things that also lined up for me during this trip. One was listening to Iron Maiden and the other, reading Elif Safak's, "The Forty Rules of Love: A Tale of Rumi." Listening to Maiden's, "Blood Brothers," as we drove towards the fort and as I took in the blue city and all the colors of Holi getting set up, not to mention the ever-present cows (on the six hour car ride to Ranthambore last year, my sister and I played punch cow instead of punch buggy and we got up to over 400 cow sightings) it just reminded me how much I love that band and how much some of the lyrics just resonate with me. I won't get all high school girlish and write them out but eh, it was just a nice feeling; this content, I am where I'm supposed to be doing exactly this, kind of moment. I might not be the typical metalhead and I might have other tastes that clash with my love of heavy metal but it is a genre that will always be close to my heart and Iron Maiden's Seventh Son of a Seventh Son was my first metal CD I bought at 15, after all. I recently ordered the patch for a vest I'm working on, I wish it would arrive.

Now the book. "Ask" as it is called in Turkish, simply, "Love," is about a literary reader named Ella who, dissatisfied with her life, gets sucked into a book she's assigned which traces the life of the poet Rumi and his companion Shams. Through this book she meets a convert to Sufism who changes her life and inspires her to reach beyond her stagnant life. Yes, the literary reader part kind of hit very close to home (especially since at the time I had also finished reading a quite poignant book at my internship about death and overcoming fear and as that is an issue of mine it kind of affected me) but the entire point of the story did too. It's about religion but not religion in the, well, religious sense if that makes any sense. It's about a spiritual connection that transcends anything tangible; love. It's simly about love and it moved me to the point where I decided what I want to do later/with the rest of my life. I want to learn about Sufism, the very soul of love as I believe it to be. Not love like soppy, puppy love, or crushes or anything like that. This is the kind of love the reaches beyond the ordinary and just envelopes you. It made sense to me even if I'm not explaining myself very well. Let me put it this way, ever since I was little I would just get overwhelmed by feelings over the smallest things. Not just feelings, but this aching tug at my heart. The clearest one I remember was for this boy Mustafa. On another family trip, we all ventued to Eastern Turkey with our good friend and her son. In Urfa, this boy Mustafa kind of attached himself to us and guided us around and took us to stores and lunch and he was so smart and so helpful that I felt this pang, violently so when we were saying good bye. That's the love that's explored and illustrated in, "Ask." Simple love for another being because they touched you so. I want to study Sufism. If I go back to school that is the subject I want to study and I have people to help and guide me on this path. Mercan Dede, the artist who helped launch our Music House, has become a very good friend of my mother and he is Sufi. I think when my mom emailed to tell him I was interested in Sufism, he got more excited than I did! He's good friends with the author of this book, they're doing performances together this month in Belgium. My mom and I watched an interview of hers on TV recently and she is such a well-spoken, personable lady that her energy practically vibrated off the TV. You know how there are some people wh have a certain vibe or aura or energy that immediately warms you to them and makes yu think you know them even if that can't possibly be true? That's what I felt with Mercan and even a little with Ms. Safak, as I watched her speak.

India is the cliche land of enlightenment but I think for us, for my family, it just seems so familiar and so thoroughly enjoyable, we just see it as home and home is where you're the safest and most comfortable. That's why I think I could see these things clearly there because more than it just being this "entity," India is my happy place. It's my family's happy place. It becomes this cocoon of carefree joy so much so that we can all just be us. That's why we've now travelled there three times as a family (and more for my mom and dad), and have plans to go back. Home is where I'm happiest and India is my third home because my family is with me. I will never share this though that Americans seem to have of dreading home and visiting parents because my family is my inspiration and without them, I wouldn't be me. Now enough of that saccharine crap, I'm afraid I've droned on for quite a bit with this entry so enjoy some of our pictures.

Shots of Holi preparations in town.


On our way to the Holi festivities on the palace grounds. Those figures are me and my mom.



The prince getting dunked in paint.

The Maharaja playing Holi!



Us hahaha.



My anne.

My baba.



Happy Holi!

Task 6: Sky Fits Heaven

This is a touchy subject for some but I want to write about it. I believe in God. I believe in Allah. I don't pray five times a day nor do I cover my head and never appear in public with boys because I don't have the time and I like boys. I don't particularly believe in heaven and I sure as hell, don't believe in, well, hell. I believe there is a spirit, something that watches over us, that protects us and if we let it, guides us. I believe it is an energy connected to the universe and to everyone that allows for everything to work out the way it's supposed to and that everything happens for a reason. As far as I know, and I am a know-it-all, there's no bearded dude in the sky getting mad at us for having sex before marriage or tsking every time we eat pork. In fact, I kind of look down on most religions. Who are you to tell me I came into this world full of sin and some man died because of it? What is gunah about showing my hair? I have great hair for crying out loud and Allah wouldn't have given it to me if he wanted it to be covered up! No, I believe organized religion brings out the worst in people. Adhering to rules is one thing but to live by a book who can't claim an author? Not for me. This is true for most things though, fanatics are scary people. Have you tried talking to a fan of those Twilight books? Scarier than an army of zombie nuns. I do believe I came into this world for a reason, and when I'm done with what I have to do, I will leave it. I do believe in the soul and the spirit. That is what Allah and religion is to me. It's a connection to the energy around you. Sixth sense in a way, or instinct. I have my little idiosyncrasies like always stepping onto a plane with my right foot and praying three times before take-off. And by praying I mean cupping my hands and hastily wishing Allah to protect me and my family, thanks for everything, let me arrive safely at my destination please and thank you. To me Allah is the gut feeling that helps me along the way. I know I'm here for a reason and when I'm done with what I have to do, I'll leave. Maybe a part of me will come back.

Some people might say all these things; religion, superstition, prayer, God, reincarnation are all excuses people make up to feel safe. So what? I do feel better knowing that there might be a chance my soul could live on. I mean, I might not remember my past lives but some part of what made Leyla might survive on this little planet. What's the harm in believing in that? I'm scared of death. I'm scared than most people I know. It's caused me to have panic attacks and burst into tears randomly because I can't help it. It seems so final and done. I'm scared shitless of the fact that I will lose people I love. It's the one thing I can't make peace with. But I'm trying. This is what Allah is to me, it's comfort and I don't care if people sneer at it. Atheists are just as annoying as religious fanatics. Why do you need to foist your beliefs on other and damn them for not agreeing with you? This is what I believe and I'm no trying to convince anyone, I'm just trying to explain myself. My protector does not see killing people in his name as a good thing. My protector allows me to combine Islam and Hinduism and a bunch of other things to carve out a belief system that suits me. Religion is at the forefront of soothing people in the face of death and it should be. It's nothing that can be explained and to be torn from the ones you love forever is a ridiculously scary notion. What if you could be with them again? Wouldn't that be amazing? You could have me in your life over and over and over!

Not that I'm a complete saint. I mean, as much as I don't want to judge others there are certain notions that make me involuntarily roll my eyes. The HBO show Big Love and the whole religious reasons for polygamy therein made me yell at my TV many a time as I watched it. It's a good show though, check it out. But the simple matter is, I'm afraid of dying. I'm afraid of death. I fear the reaper, if you will haha. I don't want my mom, my dad, my boyfriend, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and every other person that has ever touched me to leave. Especially to a place where they can't come back and visit at least not in the physical sense. My beliefs are working very hard to soothe me and like I said, there's a reason for everything.

So it was a pretty big "coincidence" that I just started reading Elif Safak's Ask. This book was a big hit here, she's one of Turkey's most famous authors and I was just waiting for the English version to come out (it's out in the States too, The Forty Rules of Love by Elif Shafak) and I finally got it and read the entire 300+ page book on the flight to India (oh yeah, I went to India, more on that later). It's about Ella, a forty year old woman stuck in a rut, feeling a little lost and working as a reader at a literary agency.

What is my current unofficial job? How have I been feeling? Yeah exactly.

Through her job Ella reads a book about the life of the poet Rumi and his companion Shams and their religion of Sufism. Sufism is a branch of Islam that focuses on the titular rules of love and how they can be applied to life and basically the love of Allah. It really touched me. In my previous entry I mentioned the artist Mercan Dede. He is a Sufi and Elif Safak actually thanks him in the acknowledgements of this book. It's such a simple concept. The idea of love. Of loving everything and everyone and living your life with love. There was one sentence in the book that especially stood out to me. "To be a Sufi, you learn to die before death." I'm paraphrasing but still, it struck a chord with me. Learning to accept and welcome death in life is not something I can wrap my mind around. I live each day fighting the thought of it. But it made sense. As I read books submitted to me, I keep receiving messages that ring true with me much like the protagonist of Ask. One book's underlying theme was that life is about choices and you need to make them. The one I had to read and write up in one day, yesterday, was all about love. It was about all-encompassing love and life and focused on an immortal soul. One that had to die before he could live again, forever. I think we can stop calling them coincidences now. Or I can.

My grandfather and I recently came to the conclusion that I could teach. I have a master's that allows me to teach in my field and maybe further down the line I could get my PhD. Well this is what sealed it. I want to study this. Maybe do it on my own, read about Rumi and Sufism, but it would be something I would love to sink my teeth into and maybe realign my belief system to better flow with it as well. It is a comfort. Everything does happen for a reason. I've seen enough proof of it in my life to believe it. It's what makes the dread of fear in my chest slowly ebb away.