The biggest fish are nickel grey, though some of the smaller ones are gold. I do not know if they lose their color as they grow, or if perhaps the more beautiful ones are not, in the end, fit to thrive. I remember my mother's disdain for flair. She would be pleased by the triumph of the plain.

In the northern corner of the cistern, a feeding frenzy breaks the surface of the water. A little girl throws chunks of ekmek into the shallows. There it takes on water, growing dark, until the carp have torn it apart.

One beaches himself on the foot of the teardrop column. He struggles, and even over the sound of the flute, I can hear the rush of his scales. He sucks in breadcrumbs furiously. Then, his bite consumed, he pushed himself back into the pool. Before him, a dull shape waits.

It is larger than the other fish, with a gut that disappears along the floor. The cistern is dimly let with colored bulbs. These ring the columns, four to one, shining various shades of red. The monster-carp's mouth is a gaping thing, stained pink by the light. He holds it open, above the surface of the water, while he waits. Now and then he pushes himself from side to side. I watch the water run into his throat. Other fish swim over and under him, but patiently he waits.

From my spot on the wooden platform, I can see deep inside of him. My eyes recoil; I do not want to feel any part of myself slipping into such a beast. We are already too similar, he and I. Both of us are blind, and hoping.

Every prayer, I ask Allah to show me the answer to my question. Back home, in the West, can we thrive? Sometimes, walking in Cambridge, I feel the weight of my family in my back. My spine aches, wondering. Where can I give them the best life? How much struggle is useful? Is there anywhere in the world where Islam intersects with the West, and through its joining is strengthened?

My question weighs heavily on me. Unintentionally, I cry; since arriving in Turkey, I find that I cannot make it through salah without tears. For the first two rakat, perhaps, I am fine. By the third, during sujud, it starts; not weeping, exactly, because there is no sound. My mouth does not
howl, it floods.

I do not know the sunnah of tears, nor much about their connection to the heart. Does one purge the other? I recall that the function of the tears in the eyes is a cleaning one; is the same true throughout the body? Will this outpouring purify my heart?

A crust of bread rubs the monster's mouth, and gurgling, he snaps it shut. He sinks back into the water, until only the tip of his top fin breaks, black, through the surface. He is almost invisible. Even submerged, he is fearful to me. In each of his grotesque poses, I see myself reflected.

I walk back to the narrow, we path. The cistern covers almost 10,000 square meters, and is crossed with twelve rows of columns. A wooden platform has been erected through it, tracing the cistern's perimeter, and reaching out in places across its depths.

I wander its every inch. While I move, I think of its history. Of its creation, disappearance, and renaissance. The Emperor of Byzantium, Justinian, built it 1500 years ago, to accompany the Hagia Sophia. During his era, it carried water away from the heart of Istanbul. Its branches stretched for twenty kilometers, along the Golden Horn.

Then abruptly, the cistern stopped. When the Ottomnas arrived, they ignored it. Perhaps they preferred flowing water to water sitting underground; at any rate, more quickly than it was built, the chamber was forgotten.

For five hundred years, no one remembered that it was there. Finally, an explorer from Sweden came to search for Byzantine remains. He spoke to the men and women of the city, and those living in the shade of the gardens told him a curious tale.

By running buckets beneath their houses, they were able to pull water up. More over, it was possible for them to go fishing in this manner. Every so often, when they reached for water, a hearty fish came up. A gift from God for certain, but, the historian wondered, how?

He undertook a careful search of the basements of the blessed. In one, presumably buried, he found what he was looking for. Before his eyes, it opened for him: a path into the well.

And so the cistern passed from its original purpose into obscurity and back. I marveol at its passage whil I walk and listen. Everything around me has a reflection. The curved, bricked ceiling is reflected deep below the water's edge, as a pale, smooth channel. The columns are themselves reflected, the walls are reflected, and I am reflected. While I study the shape that the ceiling makes upside down, my thoughts return to the heart.

Is not the heart of the convert like this cistern: created, lost and rediscovered? Is it possible that the model of my heart is not a swollen fish, but is instead a miraculous, lasting, beautiful place? Up ahead, one corner of the underground well glows more brightly than the others. I make my way toward it, over a path which grows increasinly slick. Water falls from the ceiling onto my head. My footsteps squeak. I am happy, I decide as we walk, that my heart did not stay buried. Allah guides whom He so wills, and alhamdulillah, He picked me.

When I reach the cistern's brightest corner, I find Medusa waiting. Two versions of her head, each carved from stone a meter high, sit half-submerged beneath columns. The first head is placed upsidedown. It resembles a deathmask; the virgin's eyes are curved shut, her mouth is flat and closed. The water rises above her hair, and touches the tops of her eyes. From the place where her neck should be, a column of grey stone roses up to the ceiling. She is stuck, supporting the cistern, less form than function.

The second carved Medusa head is placed on its side. In this statue, she is alive. Her eyes are open, tilted up. Her mouth is pursed, and the corners of her lips are smiling. Her hair, where it falls in serpent
curls, is almost lovely. This head too supports a column. In both of her aspects, she is a butterfly, pinned by a scientist. She does not move, nor will she, ever again.

The sign by the heads says that they are Roman. The Byzantines brought them here, perhaps stole them from a ransacked temple, but to what end? As a former Catholic, Rome is marked in my heart with the weight of the Church. The two are inseparable; I cannot think of Rome without remembering the Vatican. I cannot think of the Vatican without remembering my mother's faith.

I have forgotten, or almost, that Rome was once pagan. Medusa's eyes, whether open or shut, remind me. Empires change. What once seemed as if it would go on forever is now reduced to rubble. Could America ever become Muslim, I ask my heart. From inside, a voice replies. Could Rome ever
become Christian? Could it let go of Hera, Perseus, Zeus? The gorgon's head, floating, seems to whisper "Yes."

Lauttasaaren silta, rakoista kipeät jalat ja puhki puhuttu maailma.

Lahnaruhon uusi sohva (ei yhtä hyvä nukkumiseen kuin mun) ja litra vettä.

Auto Smarketin parkissa.

Hönö Rautatieasemalta.

Tuoreet leivät Haagamarketista.

Luksusaamupala Hanna-puolueen seurassa.

Puolen tunnin aamu-uni omassa kesäsängyssä.

Auto ja Porvoontie. (Sakoista ei huvita puhuu.)

Brunberg! Kasoittain ruskeeta ja lihottavaa ja ihanaa.

Porvoon Cittarin parkkihalli ja turistirosso ja sata kokeiltua kenkää ja miljardi lahjatavarapuotia ja suklaakakkukahvila ja joenranta ja seuraavan vuoden kesäkommuuni.

Uimaranta jota ei ollut.

Hanurin työhuoneen sohva, vessassa runkkaavat nörtit ja pygmityökaveri.

Kammottava Jumbo-mall, kännykkäkauppa ja Crocs-bingo.

Ikean lihapullat, fletkumatoilua sohvaryhmissä ja uuden kodin sisustussuunnitelmia.

Etelä-Espoo, Hanurila ja vihdoin koti.

Nyt on aika välikuoleman.

I'd have to admit that I too have a job, hey you gotta work for money. My vision, however, is not of a job forever. I truly believe that there's more to life than dedicating most of of it to a job. Let's face it, it takes time away from your family, friends and yourself. There are times when I wish that just sit down and take better care of myself. (working out, eating right, extensive grooming) That's one thing I really learned in my twenties, is to take care of myself now so that I can grow into a more beautiful person. Now I'm speaking upon physical beauty here. As solid as a rock, I already know that I'm a beautiful person on the inside and will always be. =) That's going to have to be another blog later. Oh, I have so much to say on that topic.

Hey, this blogging thing is really nice because I'm usually the "quiet" girl in public. The one that sits in the back and just listens. Not too much of a talker. Just not in my nature to try to be in the limelight. This journal or "blog" really gives me a way to record my thoughts. It's kind of fun writing and reading it. I wonder if it will be saved forever? Maybe I can still have it when I turn 40? Anyhow, have a great day and remember to take time out to take care of yourself! Even if it's just 5 minutes a day at first. =)

Before he is even two year old, Black Beauty some men hunting.  While leaping a stream, one of the huntsmen fell.  He and the horse were both badly injured.  A few days latter, Black Beauty saw a black carraige drawn by black horses move slowly toward the church.  The horse's rider had died.  Black Beauty never found out what happened to the horse.  This book is clearly trying to say that hunting for sport and not for food is bad.  This is only true to a certain extent.  We Christians are to be stewards of the earth.  Therefore, we should not kill anything unnecessarily.  However, in our day and age, people often carry this to far and instead of killing to much the do not kill anything.  This is also wrong.  Did not God tell us to eat meat?

Soon after the hunting accident Black Beauty is broken in.  This means that he was taught how to wear a saddle, a bit, and all the other necessary gear of a horse.  After he was broken in, Black Beauty was sold a had to leave his first home.  This was  only the beginning of his moves.  Throughout his busy life Black Beauty changed homes many times.  He meet good masters and bad.  A bad master nearly ruined him.  A kind horse, Black Beauty worked hard for his good masters and took ill treatment patiently. By the end of the book, Black Beauty, an old, tired horse, is bought by a kind mistress who promises never to sell him, but to treat in with care.

Black Beauty does give characteristics of humans to animals.  The horses in this story can think and talk to each other, and one horse, Black Beauty, can write a book.  However, this is not like some stories today in which animals talk to humans.  Some people think that the Bible is against giving any human attributes (reasoning, talking, writing, wearing cloths, etc.) to animals.  I am not sure exactly were I stand on this issue, but, as you can tell from the fact that I read this book, I do not think that the Bible is against giving animals human attributes.  If the Bible was against this, then why did God cause Balaam's donkey to talk to him?  I real life God caused an animal to talk.  Why can it not happen in fiction then?  As I said earlier, I am not certain what I think about this issue, and if someone would like to discuss it with me feel free to do so.

Das Programm strotzt natürlich nur so von Highlights, seien es die begnadeten Außensaiter mit der stadtbekannten Sängerin, deren amateurhafter Name mir gerade nicht einfallen will. (vom 10-13. Juli) Oder The great Voltini and Madame Electra ... ich sage nur, Hochspannung! Oder das einzig wahre und unglaublich universale Druckluftorchester. Mein Tipp, einfach hingehen, Karten kaufen und vor den Zelten mit den größten Schlangen anstellen. Man macht selten etwas verkehrt.

Hier nochmal zum nachlesen die Eindrücke von vergangenen Schaubudensommern: 2001, 2003, 2004

Weitere Infos und das Programm unter www.schaubudensommer.de

The few people he has left on his side.

He likes this alleyway because even though alleyways are supposed to be scary, this one is slightly lit up and you can see all the way down it once you turn the corner. Raef thinks he’s crazy but that’s because she’s crazy too, worrying about werewolves and bloodletting her issues. He shakes his head a little, thinking about Raefon, and rounds the corner…and that’s when he sees her. Anna.

Caught between the citric dazzle of streetlights and headlights and the glare from the pub window, he freezes. All he wanted was to sit on his crate and wait for Sasha to come home from work but now there’s this girl and he feels both wary and pissed off.

Why couldn’t she find her own alleyway?

And she’s standing on his crate to see into the pub, which means there’ll be footprints, maybe mud, so if he sits on his crate today there’ll be mud on his jeans and this tangled state of emotion reminds him of the man who thought it was funny to piss on him, remember that, sitting there minding his own business and some guy from the bar flops out his dick and pisses on him like he’s nothing…

Matt takes a deep breath because his head is speeding too fast, like when he drinks too much and sits on the toilet with his eyes closed, feeling motion, flying on the experience - what it’s like to be a car on a highway - until he starts to feel sick.
He used to think this was his own special drunken power, but Raefon has said it happens to her too.

Maybe it’ll be ok. This girl isn’t going to piss on him.
She hasn’t noticed him yet though, plugged into oblivion via headphones, and if he doesn’t make himself known he could scare her. Worse, she might figure him for an attacker and go for him; there are a lot of spikes jutting out from her belt and jewellery…he doesn’t fancy feeling like a porcupine’s rape-victim.
It’s kind of Sasha’s fault, this situation. If she’d been home, he could have swapped his skills for some whisky and wouldn’t be stuck in this alley dilemma. That’s Sasha’s term for it, ‘swapping his skills’ and he likes it, feels awash with relief each time he hears it, because it’s a phrase that suggests he has a place in this world, a use, a purpose…skills, dammit. Once the world felt like a burden around his neck, and lately there’s been a role reversal – he’s been reduced to the burden around everyone else’s neck.

Not with Sasha though.
She’s his journalist friend, whose grammar leaves a lot to be desired; he’s the bloodhound on her trail, scenting typos and comma-holes, marking his territory with semi-colons. Matt likes typos, they’re a real comfort in this deteriorating world, something to show it’s still possible to be human and make mistakes. On the other hand, Sasha’s airy disdain for language is further proof of the degeneration and people’s disrespect for all that is worthy of protection.

Sometimes he gets headaches and doesn’t finish to Sasha’s deadline. Those are bad days, knowing that an article is heading outside still in need of corrections. The glossy magazine she works for doesn’t seem to give a shit, and this is one of many reasons why Matt doesn’t like magazines.

He can only see a slice of the girl’s profile, gaze fixed intently on the pub’s interior. She’s wearing a lot of eye liner, which gives off a vibe of either evil or sarcastic wit…Matt can’t tell which. He’s met plenty of people who look like that; sometimes he likes them and sometimes he doesn’t – same as with the rest of the world. Suddenly, she ducks her head from the window like she’s hiding.

Cover blown. She’s seen him.

Hurried tugging of earphones. “Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s a good question. Not a rapist, killer or mugger.” He pauses. “Or werewolf.”

She’s still cautious, but it’s more the caution reserved for tattered ‘weirdos’ who insist on regaling you with their life story on the bus than for a life-threatening situation.
“Crazy guy?” she asks, like he’s missed one off the list.

“Crazy guy,” he agrees. This was supposed to break the ice, coax a laugh, but she just watches him, poised at a slanted angle, wanting to look back to the window but he can tell that she isn’t prepared to turn her back on him yet. “So what’s on your Walkman?” he asks.

“Walkman?” she echoes incredulously.

He shrugs. “Discman, ipod, whatever it’s called. I don’t like them.”

“Why not?” she drops her guard, seems genuinely curious.

“Well, Discmans are ok. But haven’t you noticed a gradual degeneration in music standards since downloading music got more popular?”

“Pop music’s always been shit,” she near-spits.

“Sure. But the borders are blurring; rock and metal are falling into the ‘pop’ genre and becoming just as bland as boy bands ever were. Hell, they are boy bands.”

Is that respect in her eyes or just his imagination?
“So, what are you listening to?”

“Guess,” she challenges, still sounding unfriendly.

“Slayer feat. N’Sync: The World Sucks And Nobody Loves Me So Let’s Drink Blood.”
Teasing – is it too soon for teasing? He’s never been good at this stuff, although he wanted to be.

“You really are crazy. The fucking Clash, man.”

“OK. Cool.”

“Can you go away now, ‘cause I’m kind of busy here?”

“Not really. I wanted to hang out here to wait for my friend Sasha. I can’t go home because I’m not even supposed to be out and if I go home people will realise I’m not in my room zonked out on Olanzapine.”

“Are you schizophrenic?”

“No, but they think I am. I just can’t handle my head is all. I never -”

NEVER NEVERRrrr…land…ahoy…there sailor…seaman…semen…see man, you are crazy…

“Shut up,” Matt mutters, not even caring if it breaks the atmosphere; once the orchestra gets started, they don’t let up. “I never take the meds,” he continues calmly. “They fuck me up.”

Deep breath, inhale irony.

“So, what is it you’re busy doing here, anyhow?”

y a ver que se puede hacer por que no tngo ni idea de lo que podemos

hacer para sulucionar este problema. A si y lo escribo aquí por que este blog

es como un diario y para ver si alguien comenta para ver como soluciono este

problema o si lo sulucionamos juntos.

Pues la verdad esque al principio solo decian que teniamos

problemas pero si no recuerdo mal todo empesó por que te dije algo del andreu

por el movil entonces despues de eso lo arreglamos hablando bueno casi

mejor dicho lo arregle yo por que tu como que hacercarte a mi mas bien

poco, bueno pero hablamos mientras bajabas corriendo a buscar a la Clara y la Eli,

bueno lo arreglamos y todo bien pero aora otra vez creo yo que

tenemos problemas por que por el msn la Marina me dijo que por que

estaba yo cabreado contigo, bueno pues no lo estaba y si pasaba a veces

de ti era por que queria olvidarte, por que tu no me quieres y yo a ti si,

pero al parecer tu te lo tomastes mal

eso de que pase de ti algunas veces y... cuando fuimos a recoger las notas casi

todo lo que te decia pasabas de mi pero quiero que sepas que no estaba

enfadado pero ahora si que lo estoy, por pasar de mi ademas que pasaras de

mi no fue lo que mas me hiso enfadar lo que mas me enfado era que te ibas

y claro te despedistes pero en vez de despedirte de todos (la Eli, Clara, Sico y yo)

pos dijistes deu y me vez a mi como tonto diciendo deu y vez que la Eli y la Clara

iban detras tuyo dijistes aaahh y las mirastes a ella entonces que el deu era

solo para ellas ??