It Moves Me.

Stop by my house on any Sunday morning (but, really, don’t do this, okay?) and you’re likely to find me still in my pajamas with my notebook propped on my knees, tapping away at the keyboard while a staccatoed Turkish Bağlama and wailing Armenian Duduk compete to be the most unusual sound to drift from my speakers.

My first exposure to a Middle Eastern style of music was as a pre-teenager, when my virgin suburban ears first heard, of all things, Duran Duran’s Tel Aviv. My untraveled mind was immediately transported to a faraway land where, presumably, impossibly attractive young men draped in Vivienne Westwood couture spent their leisure time. I was hooked.

My interest was further piqued when, in college, I lived across the street from the International exchange students’ boarding house where I met a woman from Turkey. Though our friendship got off to a turbulent start, mostly because we couldn’t agree that her new boyfriend was not, in fact, mine; we eventually formed a bond that continues to be one of the most significant personal connections I’ve made. Some of my favorite memories are of sipping Turkish coffee in her kitchen, dancing foolishly in her living room, and foraging one another’s closets for items that would make her more western and me more eastern.

It wasn’t until many years later, after she had gone back home and I had stayed, that I could look around and everywhere see her influence. I came to realize how much this experience had affected my aesthetic preferences—from cuisine, to décor, to fashion, to music. And, more importantly, how much it taught me to explore and embrace my femininity in a way that is quite different than the American way. 

Belly dancing, which I’ve been practicing for almost two years now, is one way I respond to this. And as I’ve improved my craft, my library has become stacked with Arabian drums, Egyptian beats, and many a Turkish delight. These days, I gravitate to this music more than any other style. Because when I listen to it, I am moved to dance. And when I am moved to dance, I am in another place.

Though I am nowhere near performance ready, I bought this costume 
to inspire my continued improvement. Someday, maybe...

I Wonder.

At or around the age of five, I went through a stage when I didn’t believe that we, as humans, were real. I imagined that we were lesser forms who were only dreaming that we had all of our abilities. Hopeful, single-celled organisms (or maybe robots) who could do no more than fantasize about grasping a tendril of hair or sniffing fragrant blossoms or leaping higher than high—or performing any of the other surprising feats that our bodies amaze us with every day. Eventually, perhaps when morning after morning I awoke to the same unchanging and functional shape, I began to accept the phenomenon that is our being.

I was an odd child, yes. But my sensibilities also lacked the influence of dogma; and, thus, I was free to explore the questions of existence and creation without the answer already provided. If it’s fair to use this word, I will call it a blessing. Many find comfort in their beliefs, while I find it in the absence. It is, as they say, what it is.

But that’s not what I want to write about today. Except to say that a blank slate awaits its first mark.

The first real impression made on me was by Alan Watts, and, several times over the years, Alan, if I may be so casual, has come into my life like a returning lover. He has awakened me at moments when I didn’t know I was sleeping. He has sparked me when I thought I might be forever snuffed. And he has aroused me when I seemed satiated.

I could use this space solely to explore his philosophy; but, for the sake of relevance, I will hold to a meaningful point that has kept me focused and determined over the years: there will be no murder in my kitchen. A similarly-titled chapter in a little book called “Does it Matter” can tell you the rest. (Ah, once out of print—and admittedly dated in some places—it finds its afterlife in cyberspace. I believe you can read the entire entry here.)

I can’t lie, I occasionally perform heinous culinary acts that deserve the highest penalty; but, relatively speaking, I try very hard to make meals that are worthy of the sacrifices that brought them to my table.

Today's example is this recipe for Grilled Chicken Breasts with North African Spice Paste. Grinding the whole spices is a must, by the way.

Trust me.

My Wildest Dreams

If Oscar Wilde had had the opportunity to whisper in the ear of Epicurus, together they may have been able to form an ideology I could subscribe to. The viewpoint of experiencing pleasure in moderation (so as not to result in pain) certainly has its merits. And if a fifth slice of pizza has ever sprawled you out on the couch, pants undone and cursing, or an English-pint-sized serving of Warrior Porto has ever made you vomit so violently that you broke blood vessels in your face, then Epicurus may be your man. But Oscar Wilde believed in moderation only in moderation, and as someone who has personally found the most satisfaction in that sweet spot just south of restraint, I have to say, I like where he was going with that.

If you’re familiar with my blog Shoe Stalking, then you’ve seen what this kind of indulgence looks like. But, lately I’ve been thinking about everything else that I am passionate about and wanting an avenue of expression that doesn’t, sometimes only loosely, relate back to what’s on my feet. 

Will anyone care besides me? I don’t know.  

But, even if it’s just for me, I will write here about fashion I want to eat, art I want to wear, and cuisine I want to paint. I will explore ideas that make me want to dance. And music that lets my mind travel. And places that only exist in my imagination.

And we’ll see what happens.

A view of the Danube in Budapest, Hungary.

From the chaotic gypsy music, to the mind-blowing architecture, to the sometimes 
scary adventure of it, this trip represents everything I’m talking about.