#28 – Cappadocia

The following is a prose-poetry recount of a trip during my trip to Cappadocia, which lasted until night and through to morning. It is quite unamenable to linear comprehension, I would treat it like an imagistic slideshow that is intended to elicit and contrast certain feelings. 

I am not an especial fan of it, as I say it is quite unfriendly and inward-looking but again it represents a stage of development.

 

Cappadocia trip has shifted something. Along the white ashen trails, amid the volcanic geoforms frozen sensuous, in monastic nooks without and the winding crannies within. I left parts of my mind strewn along those alabaster-ash ways.

In oceanic night, when dark waves spirited me rough through my sightless limbo. There, where Abyss rocks me on all sides in my foetal cradle, where inauspicious winds come bearing eddies of ash to occlude all my senses. In tenebrous womb, illuminated only seconds at a time by passing car-lanterns I descend circlewise down my midnight gyre, and there at the bottom beneath its terminating step, I dip my toe into a primordial pool of nothing.

 *       *       *

With each contact, its cool emptiness seeps into me. The emptiness grows and the core of myself recedes. It has diluted the accreted fictions that constitute my ‘personality’. An emulsive layer of it, the cool emptiness, sits in the make-up of my being – a latency – surrounded sparsely by broken-up egoic material, inflamed and desperate to coalesce again. It’s hard to be at home with this intruder from Reality.

*       *       *

Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy. Redundancy.

*       *       *

The bearded man who sat open at the one-stop shop between nothing and nowhere. Just the openness, to my twitching fragility. As I sat beside the man like a loyal stray, that was enough. Enough human warmth cupped thirsty from a well to stumble on undaunted into Stygian maw.

*       *       *

Conversations had alone. Stimulus-response smiled stares. Gazes averted from Life, earnest talk of Progress in office buildings, timorous homeless gathered under secluded bridges; seas of liquid rock aflame beneath the Earth’s mantle; a bus alighted by a man and a woman. A lit cigarette left temporarily unhandled on a ceramic ashtray. A sunbaked roof, a dripping tap, the silent moments alone in bathrooms, shared glances – warm rains starting deep in a canopied forest.

Continuous sleek-grey walls in anodyne airports. Invisible eyes pointed at your skull. A constipated human trapped in the cubicle of a plane landing in New York. A sea-lapped shore. A weatherman elaborating on the Outer Hebrides. A feeding mosquito. A palette-cleanser. A slammed car-door heralding commotion and shouting voices.

*       *       *

Parroting the words of a parting sentence, looking lost there behind the window of a vehicle in-transit.

“Where am I?” In-transit, presently.

“Who is she?” In-transit, presently.

“Why am I?” In-transit, presently.

Pushing past the conductor, I deftly make my way to the front catching looks as I go. There I ask the driver,

“Where do I get off?” and the driver replies,

“Don’t ask me. Nowhere, I presume.”

“How do you mean?” I entreated.

“I mean, you got on as Nothing, and our last stop is Nowhere,” replied the driver.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well you see, my grandfather always said to call a spade a spade. He would always say that the beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right name,” the driver replied.

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