Collecting Moments

She’s a little girl, a hippy, Dreadlocks, tattoos. They had a fight a minute ago And she is still confused. There are no sheets And the carpet is full of cats’ hair. It is easy to leave this place But it is not fair. It’s dark and filthy And smells like shit. She struggles to smile But she can not quit. She moved in with him. It was five months ago. She’s trapped in his flat With no other place to go. There’s no fresh air It’s impossible to breathe. But she will not go out To feel the breeze. She’s just a little girl, A hippy with sad eyes. It’s easy to leave this place But there's no disguise.

Before the ancient Greeks and Romans, christians and muslims in Anatolia there were the Lycians. They loved freedom, carved tombs into the rocks like the Nabateans and worshiped a mother goddess. That’s how Herodotus (I, 173) describes their matriarchy: “Their customs are partly Cretan and partly Carian. But they have one which is their own and shared by no other men: they take their names not from their fathers but from their mothers, and when one is asked by his neighbor who he is, he will say that he is the son of such a mother, and rehearse the mothers of his mother. Indeed, if a female citizen marries a slave, her children are considered pure-blooded; but if a male citizen, even the most prominent of them, takes an alien wife or concubine, the children are dishonored.” Plutarch gives a mythical explanation of this tradition in his book “Bravery of Women” in the chapter dedicated to the Lycian women: “Bellerophon killed a wild boar which was making havoc of the stock and crops in

Rivers running into the sea...

A PRESENT FROM ISTANBUL Yesterday we spent a beautiful day on the green island of Burgaz, half an hour by ferry from Istanbul. I meditated on the sea and walked along the rocky coast. As usual, my souvenir from that trip was an abandoned historical building I found somewhere in the middle of the island. I marveled at its decaying beauty and at the lack of interest from tourists passing by. On the way back I was feeding seagulls from the boat. As my friend put it “Now you are really Turkish!”. When we returned home it turned out that the same day and night in Istanbul the police had dispersed Pride Parade on Taksim square with teargas, water cannons and rubber bullets. Today I met a girl who was there. She was dancing in the street when the crowd suddenly started running towards the metro station. She couldn’t get into the train because it was full and stayed alone on the platform. And the police were firing pepper spray inside the station… She survived and didn’t even get to the hosp

My friend told me the other day that when her sister was dying she cried and said "I never got to be me. I never got to be me". And I immediately remembered what I heard from another woman in completely different circumstances also somewhere in Ireland... GO HOME Go home and tell your husband Go home and tell your kids Go home and drop your burdens on the floor in a pile of the laundry Tell them who you are, who you were, who you could be... (© Tina Pisco) The more I stay in Ireland the more I realize how damn lucky I am to allow myself to be me. And that's why it's time to move on now...

The day started with a hitchhiking trip from Clara to Roscommon. Two lifts, 70 kms, one hour... I got out of the car on the main town square and immediately someone greeted me. Are you the guy from the “Melting pot” pub? - I asked. - Yes. - Do you know Sean? Sean O'Neill? - I do, yes. Where are you coming from? - I just came from Clara hitchhiking. I'm Katya. - Oh, hello Katya. Sean told me a lot about you. Feels like a real melting pot... And I've only been here for a month! Gerry Jago - сгусток ураганной положительной энергии, смеха, счастья. Живет настоящим, и каждый момент с ним живой и настоящий. Такой ирландский буддист :)

Hitchhiking from Clara to Clonmacnoise Today the three of us, an English man, a Chinese girl and a Russian immigrant from Israel, hitched along a dead empty country road from Clara to Clonmacnoise. I honestly thought we'd never move from that spot. But... after fifteen minutes a car stopped. It was an old lady who said she didn't like to drive people but we seemed to be too nice to be left stranded. She was going only ten kilometres down the road to see her daughter, a hair-dresser and a wife of a local detective. When we actually arrived at her daughter's house, a young lady greeted us and offered us a lift all the way to Clonmacnoise. So we just got out of her mother's car and got into hers. Clonmacnoise, an ancient monastic site and a cemetery, turned out to be a horrible place with a new tourist bus arriving every thirty minutes and an entrance fee of seven euros. But since I'd already spent one month in Ireland hiking mostly on private farm lands, it was just