The night before I had taken many picture's of the sunset over the Mosques from the Galactica Bridge which spans Europe to Asia. As is a great Tradition in Istanbul on Friday nights the Egyptian Market was alive with people, perhaps half a million shoppers packed so tightly between sacks of spices and fish. Colors almost assaulting the eyes. Smells and tastes of ancient trade invading the nostrils as I wonder how something so old and far away can resonate like Home .How can a place so utterly crowded that You swim along with whatever tide captures you. Shoulder to shoulder with the maddening crowds. If You make eye contact with a shop keeper He will extend His hand for you to grasp and be pulled from the milling throng into the tranquil quiet of the shop, which feels like the wake of that soul nourishing wave of Humanity. You stagger then stand as You flux from the event to individuality. Huge bags of spices are like sandbags of color against the waves of people walking by.. thousands,fucking thousands.
The proprietor smiles and spreads his hands. He knows Your here now. Tt is calmer, quieter peaceful. He knows for this alone You will be adding to his coffers tonight. For fair exchange for the ambience of this moment You are sharing. Teas, spices, dried goods all packed into every nook and cranny and if You want something He does not have His cousin knows someone who does. And there is just this sense of trust. Of a human commonality a pride. In the Egyptian Market everything is for consumption. Breads teas fish spices baked goods and the smell of turmeric is intoxicating .It is afternoons like this that have such memory of the self as observer and participant that makes the event euphoric, transcending. Children run down stone stairs laughingly. Men talk under the shade of a tree while woman bread pieces of warm fresh bread to eat. Young woman look back giggling at young men embarrassed to be caught looking. Everything from everywhere all at once. And You breath an ancient air that makes your lungs explode with being. The vibrancy of color's sights and sounds that create theyre own music in Your head. Soon We would step back into the moving flow of people that made up this maddening crowd. But for the nonce We would sip apple tea laced with raw sugars in glasses that felt like diamonds and we Were Kings on this world. Knowing We are who we are, where we are, where we should be.
At the docks of the seawall under the bridge where Sultan Mehmed II lay siege to Constantinople for 3 months before finally taking the city. And all along the seawall rows of neon signed boat restaurants bob up and down and come into view across the square of The Old Mosque at the side of the Galactica Bridge serving traditional fish sandwiches to thousands who sit and eat as the sun goes down over far away Mosques and Castle turrets with the air cooling and the stone roads quiet as the soft last prayers whisper and fade from the Minarets. And there is an air of freshness of a family wholesomeness and belonging simply because you are spark of energy in an ocean of eternal movement. The constant unending dance of life isnt happening to you. It isnt happening around you. It is You and your surge with this understanding of Your own spirit as itself. Sometimes You surge past Yourself and catch Yourself looking back just as You realize You are a different self now. And transit in motion fleeting moments make up lost minutes that resonate an eternity inside Your self.
