The strong and constant stream of a waterfall separating my outdoor kitchen from the lycian way reminds me of mankind - Every single drop of rain soaked up by the mountain, enriched by minerals, finally let loose through a canal in the rock, making its way down the mountain... Searching for home...
Millions and millions of individuals forming an unstoppable, moving body of water running the same tracks shaped by their ancestors before finally reuniting with the ocean, until next the sun separates them from home, lifting them high into the air only to smash them upon the hard surface of rock once more. Broken, bleeding and flowing... A neverending cycle.
The sound was deafening at first, after a week I thought I would get used to it, after two weeks I found the noise unbearable yet had no option but to accept it, longing for the day I would leave it behind. For men must travel and water must flow. Perhaps that is the only way we can escape the pain of being ourselves...
This used to be a common truth, but then someone planted a pole in the ground, another one planted a seed next to it and a third unfolded his sun chair, a fourth designed a weapon to fend off envious neighbours, a fifth gave it a name, and so forth...
Doesn’t really seem to make them happy though... Building all these things that nature eventually tears down anyhow... Strange breed!
Burying a pickaxe into the soil makes me a God playing with tornadoes and hurricanes, seeing all those little creatures scurry and scream as the soil is ripped apart and sunlight hits them. Yet God has a purpose, a canal must be dug, their city laid in the path and now it is in ruins, and this is beyond ants to understand. I pity them of course, as I hope God does with men...
But every once in a while a patch of land needs renewal, a new purpose, to breathe and change course, lest the soil dies. Where once there was a city now lies ash. Poor little ants!
Yet I cannot suffer them to live, for I have found purpose here...
Roads are dangerous up here, four hundred meters above sea line, but well worth the trip.
I work at a hotel, a carpenter’s apprentice under the guardian eyes of a german brother of a wife of a turkish hotel owner. Work is hard but the rewards are worthwile: I eat and sleep as any guest prepared to pay 800 euros a week. The panorama of mountain meeting ocean be blissful medicine for a restless soul like mine, spending my days building a small wooden wonder of a house on one of the many terasses of a mountain slope. I breathe mountain air with a twist of salt water, the pace of life is slow and harmonious and I am healing - Body, soul and mind. Work is hard and I believe I have never been so physically fit my whole life. I have access to a small outdoor kitchen overviewing the sea, all by myself.
They are good people, they care for nature and for people and do not even make a show out of it. They refuse to cut down trees even though the vegetation obstructs the view or lean heavily against a building, the policy seems to be to adapt to nature and not form her. They have local village people working at the hotel so as to preserve the old village life, thus not forcing them to parttake in the mad ratchase of the rest of the world. These folks are are all farmers but have been put into appropriate roles at the hotel according to their nature and personality - a chef, a gardener, a waiter... They bring local produce from their farms to be prepared in the kitchen, not by far enough to satisfy demand, yet I can taste the magic in every meal... The sweet taste of decency!
I wouldn’t call this scenario ecological since it’s not about returning to nature. But rather preserving something older than the concept of ecology - the old ways in an area where new never found its way. An undertaking nobler still!
My matron - The german woman cares for me in a motherly fashion - trying to nurse, feed and foster me. She has a blue glow, a happy light, to her personality and I adore her charisma. Yet she sees a boy to spoil and care for whereas I came here to become a man. When I presented my idea on how to build a garden behind the house we are constructing she smiled and took my hand and asked what I would plant where and if I was prepared to do it myself. Without thinking I answered yes although I do not know if I will be here when the house is actually finished.
My mentor - The carpenter brother is an old vagabond, a former mechanic who drove all over Europe when young. He never runs out of tales, a sympathetic teacher yet very impatient. The cold efficiency of a german mind I suppose, or perhaps his character has just been caught up in the slow pace of Turkey long enough to backfire on itself!? He smiles at me when I come up with bright ideas or remind him of something he is too stressed to remember, scowls at me when I am too slow to understand a direct command. But first and foremost he seems to appreciate my height and strong arm. I had never dreamed I’d make a living for myself through hard labour, yet here my physique seems to be my main asset.
I am the one doing all the heavy work and all the delicate work and I always work alone where the turks work as a team. They do the carpenting. I do everything surrounding the carpenting: Cleaning, organizing tools, preparing, finishing touches, painting, shovelling gravel, digging canals for water and electricity, painting... But as of now I hardly even touched a hammer.
My master - The ghost.
I know not much of him but that he is very intelligent and very humble. And that as a political and stubborn idealist in a harsh country he has suffered a lot of disgrace and pain in his past.
Perhaps that is why lately he built this garden of Eden away from civilisation where no one can touch him. Yet he is never here. He passes outside my gate morning and evening, a polite nod and a short greeting before opening either the door of his house or that of his car.
I have engaged myself in a love story - The enigmas and riddles of meeting a being of the opposite gender. I love everything about her - the way she walks and talks, moves and laughs, thinks and acts, but somehow it does not seem to pan out. Does it ever? Or rather more important, would it feel more complete if it did? Mars meets Venus is a chess board in my head, a game I have not played for so long... Thus I try to treasure the moment and not think ahead.
She says this region blocks men from creating, yet she stays, a creator herself...
Being here myself I understand this to be something that cannot be explained but must be experienced.
I am a creator myself, yet since I arrived I hardly touched my pen but almost lost it twice, and yet I wish to stay...
Every time we meet we make plans on what to do next meeting, next meeting we make more plans, sometimes we even do the things we say we would do... But mostly we just stay in bed laughing at our own inability to act.
It is a sweet and tender prison from which there is no escape but rational willpower no creator possess.
Perhaps finally a place to call home and run no more...
Perhaps just another city to lay waste...
All I know is my own house is finished and built stable on a montain and not in a city, givven all the love and care I could muster as a disciple, for a master I will never be. For mastery is not for me to live in but for someone else to suffer the consequences of a settled life. Me I shall merely rest in the still womb of calm calamity till next storm rips me from this soil...
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