A Karagözi intervention after multitasking with meatballs

Posted on December 1, 2011 by lizcameron

A terrifying image - the puppets tell me I am going down this road - thanks to this website for the image: http://www.motifake.com/the-modern-woman-bad-drivers-crankyhead-demotivational-posters-113611.html

Today was not my finest driving day.  Let me start by saying that despite being constantly exhausted and ready for a 2 hour nap just about any time of day, somehow, I am starting to get things done.  While the horrid on and off fevers and deep, phlegmy cough and dizziness have subsided somewhat, I am still totally tired, and literally surviving my commute and teaching moments via excessive amounts of caffeine and the eventual burst of adrenaline that comes when you have to talk to a group of students for 3 hours at a time.  The Karagöz puppet troupe is ever-present in my psyche through this time of strange health.  I think they are quite worried and don’t really get what is going on.  Sometimes they talk to me in a soupy, drawn out, slowed-down-recording voice and I realize it is because my brain is tired, slow and not functioning optimally.  Karagöz himself is pretty funny looking when he jumps up and down and twists – in slow motion.

The chain of tea delivery was in slow-motion as well, this morning, but it helped to get me up and out.  I even drove M. to work.  The little puppets were notso hot on this idea, but I was feeling the strength of morning and we managed to get there despite a lot of screeching along the way (“Watch the bicycle, how do men wear these pornographic outfits in this century?” the little ladies commented upon seeing a spandex-clad muscle man, shocked but fascinated in their Ottoman era temperaments).  Karagöz just tries to get my goat by calling me a “typical lady driver.” I ask him where he gets this term -as there are no cars in Ottoman times – and he says “watch, learn and listen, m’lady, my intellect will glisten and the television provides many revisions!”  Nonsense speak such as his takes time to decode.

Today, at one particularly chaotic moment, everything seemed to slow down as all of my efforts focused on forgetting my meatball sandwich and instead not hitting the parked car I was heading for.  I woke up early, ready to meet a colleague before 2 student meetings, a doctor’s appointment and another student meeting after that – all in different locations in my trafficky New England town.  Sleepy even after a super venti latte, I downed a Red Bull energy drink.  The puppets were up to their usual tricks to keep me awake – pinching body parts, opening the window wide for fresh air shock treatment and screaming punk rock lyrics at the top of his lungs, Karagöz was at the center of it all.  As I was chugging the cough-syrupy but enticing and powerful stuff, I remembered a conversation with a student from the previous day…she had caught sight of me downing a Red Bull and said -“Really, Dr. Professor, you are REALLY drinking a Red Bull? I thought only rave kids drank that.”  Yup, that’s me, the caffeine addict of the moment, I thought, before I realized I was about to hit a parked car.  Narrowly averted, I gripped the wheel, and soothed the terrified puppets splayed all over the car after being thrown off of their perch on top of the back seat.  Many were cursing and shaking their fists at me for a bit, but they soon resumed their efforts to shepherd and guide me through my life despite their very different values.  The little chorus of dancing ladies, well, they just cannot seem to understand how it is that ladies go out and work – they are doing their best to accept this reality – while secretly scheming for other ways of life to enter in.

Juicy, soft, home-made köfte from Kenne Teyze, the wax paper puppet from the Ottoman empire era who is one of many who inhabit my head

I made it to the next stop on my busy agenda without incident.  Dragging myself out of there, having promised my nurse practitioner to at least eat a good lunch, full of protein, I stopped in an Italian deli and ordered a meatball submarine sandwich. “Totally un-ladylike, madam, not even good looking köfte, these are.”  Kenne’s patience with me was wearing thin.  She thought another week of bed rest would be a better option.  I ignored her, slumped to the side of the 1980s-decorated vinyl-sided wall, and closed my eyes for a bit, dreaming of her delicious thyme and red pepper-infused lamb meatballs.  Once the submarine sandwich was in hand, I dashed to the car to eat my lunch on the way to my next meeting.  I do this all the time, but rarely do I dump the whole damned sandwich in between my seat and the gear shift.  It happened in slow motion and I – along with the entire puppet troupe – screamed “Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” as it played out perfectly – sauce everywhere.

So, it all got cleaned up.  I was a little late to see my student.  I didn’t have another accident, but tonight when I got home, the puppets staged an intervention.  They have determined, they tell me, that I have to be happy, healthy and safe in life, and something has to change.  They are engaging in a morning tea boycott until I can make some healthy choices in my life to get through this Lyme’s recurrence or walking pneumonia or whatever it is…at least until then, if not more, they are adding.  They hopped onto my laptop and jumped around on the keys (a great string of them, each on the other’s shoulders, so their wax paper selves would have enough weight to press the keys).  They are the ones who found the “modern woman” demotivational poster pictured above.  “You don’t want to be that woman!” they tell me, with grave, gravely voices and stern furrowed brows.  They are threatening to whisper to M. at night about the benefits of keeping me in a New England-style one-woman harem from now on…it’s getting into serious territory with these tiny wax paper figures in my brain.  Something’s gotta give, I guess it’s gotta be the meatball submarine sandwiches while driving…and the public consumption of red bull…and probably a lot more than that.   Let’s see what happens.

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Staying awake: The road from vegetarianism to drinking rabbit’s blood tea

Posted on November 28, 2011 by lizcameron

Tea has played an even more important role in my life over the last couple of weeks. I am totally exhausted and depleted most of the time, and have made it all a go with strong tea in the morning, a packed thermos of strong black tea front-loaded with sugar, a large coffee on the way to work, a coffee at work in between my thermos imbibement and a coffee on the way home if I am feeling too sleepy to drive safely.

When I am in required driving moments, Karagöz just tries to screech punk rock lyrics in my ear to keep me awake with his favorite from that 1980s band Suicidal Tendencies “Institutionalized! I’m not crazy, you’re the one that’s crazy, institutionalized! I went to your schools, your churches, and you call me crazy? Institutionalized” (See the full lyrics here, it’s a hoot). I’m not sure why Karagöz focuses on this one – he probably just remember the words and it is something to shout instead of swerving into cars. In order to try to get him to stop the high-pitched tone, I tell him all about straight edge punk as it played out in the New England suburbs in the 1980s – drug free, politicized suburban kids rejecting the status quo as much as possible. I tell myself stories about the straight edge punks I knew at that time to keep myself awake. I remember how I did not embrace that movement as I wished I might have. Sobering thoughts such as this keep me a bit more awake.

Sign for a straight edge show - punk rock in the 1980s - never cease, never desist!

Hacivad, meanwhile, takes another approach to keeping me awake on the long drive home. He rolls down the window in the hope that a blast of constant fresh air will wake me up and cure the ills of my punk rock infused eardrums. The little ladies pinch my arms to keep me on my toes. They don’t care much about mixed metaphors. M. calls me and Hacivad re-interprets his calls to “just come home” in Rumi’s words “I know you’re tired but come, this is the way.” Of course, Rumi is talking about the way of love, the way of the Sufi. And in a sense, well, I am heading home to the love of my family, so it makes sense. Hacivad likes to interpret EVERYTHING through the sayings of the Mevlana Rumi. No suicidal tendencies lyrics for him.

Eventually, I make it home, and usually crawl right into bed, no dinner. M. and I are still trying to get to the bottom of why I am still so tired. Hacivad says, no wonder! M. is worried, a doting husband in this regard. He tells me to eat bloody, red steak. I want no part in it. He tells me that I may be anemic. We’ll see what the blood test says. I remember when I was a kid and I had some sort of problem this way – my mother had to eliminate her “tofu no meatballs” and “soy product surprise casseroles” in favor of her pre-hippie times hamburgers. Even the thought of these crazed-sounding, offbeat vegetarian delights of the 1970s send the little ladies of the dancing chorus into confused huddles and result in uproarious roaring and laughing on the part of Karagöz himself.As for me – I am happy to forget some of the worst vegetarian exploration dinners I had growing up – but I am still trying to find the perfect, bottomless thermos for my tea infusions. As long as I am home near the stove, the little lady shadow puppet dancing troupe likes nothing more than ferrying tiny glasses of tea my way, passing them one to another in a string of cooperation spanning from the kitchen, through the foyer and into my green bedroom. I usually do them a favor and reach down to the floor to pick up the tiny glass of tea without spilling, as climbing the matelasse bedclothes would likely be a bother. I often see that these ladies feel truly called to serve – born to serve – and serve tea often and always. These little ladies, they start the day by sending one of their representatives up the bedclothes, onto the black nightstand and over the pillow to whisper into my groggy ear ““Do you want demli çay ( strong tea) or açık çay (weak/light tea)?” Then when the chain of tea cooperation results in warm tea in my hand, I often here them cluck-clucking and saying “tavşan kanı çay” (tahv-shahn kah-nuh chai) As I really don’t know all that many words in Turkish – I just thank them formally and nevermind. Eventually, the tea wends its way to my brain and my legs feel like moving and I can get up and get along with my day.

This weekend, we had our dear friend’s son staying with us, and it was in the process of making him some tea one morning that I finally learned the meaning of “tavşan kanı çay.” As I delivered the slender glass, both M. and our guest exclaimed “tavşan kanı!” and after seeing my confused and bemused face – said “oh – right – rabbit’s blood. We call it rabbit’s blood when it is brewed deep like this.” Ah, so that’s what the heck it is. Hmm. Check.

Pleased to be asked to pour a second glass, I had the distinct sense that all of my Turkish tea-making and Turkish tea-making observations over the last few weeks may indeed finally be paying off – I may finally be an acceptable tea-maker in the realm of the Turks in my life. This is a major form of mastering cross-cultural marriage with a Turk, I have decided. M. often makes the tea, but there are moments where it is mine to make. You may remember our tea-making challenge on my first trip to Bozcaada, click here to read that. Whenever I have made the tea, it has pretty much always been too light, or I have used a too-strange tea leaf (say, assam, with rose petals?) but these days, I am going straight for the Rize Cayi from the Black Sea region of Turkey – not even taking our Teyze’s practice of mixing one part Rize tea and one part Earl Grey tea. Mastering the art of tea-making for the future production of the happy sound of tiny steel spoons clinking against crystal glasses, that’s a wonderful moment for me, I’ll cook rabbit’s blood anyday. I love when I fit in a little bit more as the American in the Turkish territory of a Turkish-American marriage.

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Spindizzy in the Maastricht fog with the Karagöz puppets by my side

Posted on November 28, 2011 by lizcameron

View of Maastricht from St.-Janskerk

“Just keep your eyes shut, it’s warm in here.”  That’s all I could think.  The eyes seemed to be cemented shut but the charcoal glow of the behind the eyelids place I found myself in was pretty alluring, so I wasn’t going to worry about it.  I saw a few spots of glowing burnt sienna orbs floating past in the deep dark velvety grey before I realized that my head was wedged against something hard.  And my neck hurt, and my body was cold.  I felt a cool hand on my forehead and another pulling me up to a sitting position.  I could feel the uneven cobblestones under me. 

Without opening my eyes, I realized that I was sitting on the street and that I was in Maastricht, where I was set to teach for a week, starting the next day.  I felt someone slip my knapsack off of my back as they worked to right me, that’s me the flopsy mopsy body, mentally becoming aware, physically not.  The puppets started to come into focus in the deep grey – Karagöz was a bit less gleeful than usual, but did point out something I was grateful to hear”At least you didn’t pee all over the place!”  Kenne smacked Karagöz out of the picture along with one of the orange orbs her “leave her be” not even necessary to utter.  The little dancing lady chorus worked to pull my hair back into a presentable position, pulled my skirt down to a more decent level and generally saw to it that I did not lose my honor in this moment.  These little ladies, they are really worried about me losing my honor in the form of my underwear showing or some such.  “Does it count, I wonder, when you are wearing leggings?”

Outside of my closed eyes, what people saw was a not young and not old woman in a black A-line cotton dress, grey leggings and boots with an interesting scarf, splayed on the pavement unconscious.  Perhaps they could intuit that she was foolishly carrying her knapsack on her back – in her mind proof that she could travel light but in her body proof that she wasn’t up to that anymore.  They couldn’t have seen that she had already walked about 1.5 KM from her old to the new hotel as the booking was done this way by the University.  They did see that she had passed out in a doorway in the toniest section of Maastricht, right by the Max Mara store.  They didn’t see the Karagöz puppets taking care of me, like a little army of protectors in a difficult moment.

“You can open your eyes, you should open your eyes.”  This was now what I thought.  I could hear people speaking – in Flemish?  I knew they were speaking to me, but the warmth of the dark was so comforting and elusive and why worry about that throbbing pain in your head when it is so warm in here?  “You can open your eyes.  YOU CAN OPEN YOUR EYES.”  I heard the language shift, maybe that was French, then English? I am not really sure.  I made an effort to move myself and heard some positive signs from the voices on the other side of the closed eyes.  I felt dizzy and slumped back, the voices shifted accordingly.  Hacivad, ever the voice of calm, told me “Remember those Sufi dancers, twirling and whirling.  They say ‘Wherever you turn is God’ and while you are not sure about all of that, you can be sure that you are in safe hands now, it is ok to open your eyes.  You can trust these kind people who have stopped to help you, it is the kind people in your life, known and unknown that will help you when you are dizzy, when you are losing your balance or the like.”

I opened one eye, the left one.  The right one was stuck shut.  They grey light of mid-day was silvery in golden tones of fog.  I saw some lights flashing and as I regained my consciousness, finding myself sitting on the street, I realized I had passed out.  Remembering my father’s good advice that when you don’t know what to say, the best thing to say is either “thank you” or “aren’t you nice” – especially when you don’t know what to say – I did just that.  “Ah – you are American.  You need to go to the hospital, madam, you have hit your head.  Just relax now.  Do you have someone traveling with you?” Kenne and Khadijah jumped in – whispering to me that I should not admit to traveling alone, that this was shameful, that they had not liked this idea one bit anyway, it is served me right, God forgive them, they said, served me right for traveling without my husband.  A big sigh preceeded Celebi as he walked onto the scene.  Celebi, the modernist of this Ottoman era bunch of puppets inhabiting my head, was always quick to wash old ways, old views and old mores out the window.  “leave her alone – it’s a different time, a different role for women, especially here in 2011 in the Netherlands, where women’s empowerment is old hat.”

Before I could comment on anything to Celebi, I was whisked up and into the ambulance and off to the hospital a few blocks away.  I just felt like puking I was so dizzy, but after a scan ascertained that I was fine, I went home to my new hotel in a taxi after a few hours.  The puppets as well as M. convinced me to order room service and rest.  M. became so worried the next day when I did not immediately text him back that he called all over creation to find me – convinced that he had “lost me” in some sort of melodramatic but heartwarming outpouring of true love and concern for a loved one far away.  In fact, I had braved the spindizzy to head in to the University to teach, as I was only there for a few days to do so, and hated to cancel on the first day.  For the first time in a long time, I delivered the lecture sitting down, but made it through.   The spindizzy, exacerbated by jetlag, continued on and off and has still not left me, but I am muddling through the fog ok.  The puppets and M. keep their watchful eye out for me. 

So, this is just to get you up to speed on my three-week absence from these realms of the Internet.  Slowly by slowly, I’m getting back into the swing of things.  The stories are a little stilted and fuzzy, the puppets are a bit disjointed and still coughing, but they are making their way back.

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