The Collapse CLXI: Gone

02 September 20XX+1

My Dear Lucilius:

It is gone.

The how is certain. The why is unknown.

The smoke started appearing overhead on the 28th of August from the North. Originally a small wispy haze, it continued to grow over the next few days until the sky was always a hazy smudged orange – it cut down on the heat a bit, but now the days were filled with a dreary, smoky haze that seemed to penetrate everything.

Radio calls to the North of us either were unproductive or unanswered. The information we received from Little City over the hill was simply more of what we saw: much more smoke and a glow in the distance. Farther away, Epicurus related the same, except looking South in their case. From Cato, there was nothing at all.

Tonight Young Xerxes came boiling in. They finally had a message from Cato, who had been away setting backfires all week. It was only this very day that they could send someone out to get a view of what had happened.

It was a fire. A fire, it appears, that somehow swept South to consume the field of wheat

How did it happen? Who knows. A random lightning strike? Such things are not unknown at this time of year. Or maybe human set, a traveler cooking dinner? Possibly done in anger? - That makes no sense, but so little makes sense now.

As you can imagine, a fire on a field of essentially dry grass after two weeks (at least) of a very hot and dry season leaves little in its wake.

Cato is apparently fine: this has happened before in their family’s history and they had a plan. But the fire – it still burns around them and down; with nothing to stop it (other than rain or burning out – either seemingly unlikely at this point).

This is fresh from Young Xerxes and I have no more time to digest it than it took me to write this to you. I need a party – a neutral one, even if absent – to absorb this with.

Is the wheat completely gone? I have no idea. Likely Cato has far too many other things on his mind now and Euripides is too far away to assess, even if he was able. But it is safe to assume that, given the time of year we are in, any chance at this point of gathering anything is simply gone – if there is anything left to gather.

I have tried to parse this all out in my head – my calculations, for all that Pompeia Paulina has urged and suggested, are still locked away in there. What keeps coming back to me is nothing times nothing is nothing.

Other than relaying the news, the look on Young Xerxes face – the shock and bewilderment – tells me all I need to know about any plans that had been laid to this point or had been contemplated.

I look out over the burnt orange sky and this small plot of land, Lucilius, and all of a sudden all of my fears are realized. There really is nothing now except what we have here or what we can scrounge locally.

Perhaps it was fortuitous that Pompeia Paulina turned me aside to other things in advance. Even with not planning for that wheat – but oh, how sweet it would have been - I now feel even more exposed, personally and for the larger group.

The Collapse, at least, I thought I could see coming. This, there was simply no planning for.

As a coda to what has been the Summer no-one anticipated and perhaps a sign from a universe possessed of irony, it has begun to rain even as I write.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

Never Forget

 There is real evil in the world.

Turkey 2024: The Call To Prayer

Perhaps the most noticeable sign that one is in a country which by passing appearance is a typically Western one but is in fact Muslim is the adhan, or call to prayer.

(For the sake of clarity, I am no expert.  More general information here.)

The Adhan is sounded five times a day, both to call Muslims to prayer and to remind they to pray.  Traditionally this call would have been made from the minarets, the tall thin towers that accompany every mosque.  A chanter, the muzzin, would have climbed each tower and made the call.  In modern times, the minarets have loudspeakers in them and a single muzzin chants for the entire mosque.  In some cases the call may even be pre-recorded.

During our travels, the times we heard it varied.  In Istanbul, we only ever heard the 1700 call to prayer.  In a more religious area like Konya, we heard it multiple times (including at 0430, when the minaret was just outside our hotel window).

Below is the call to prayer in the Hippodrome in Istanbul (two videos).  You will note that there is a call and then a response.  In this case the call is from Aya Sofia, which is the "senior" mosque as it is the most important mosque in Istanbul (being the first).  The chanter from the Blue Mosque then responds.

You will also note that people are not just dropping to the ground and praying.  Most people are just carrying with this as part of their normal background experience.  

Run time is 0:31 seconds for the first, 0:14 for the second.

On Answers To Prayer: Church Selection

 You may recall that last week in a general end of August update, I requested prayers/good thoughts on selecting a church.  Part of that is due to timing:  my major trips are at an end for the rest of the year and frankly, it is a gap that now I have no reason not to fill.  

To put it bluntly:  Well, that was quick.

The two churches I was considering were very different Christian traditions, but both within the larger pale of orthodoxy (small "o" there). I had been to both.  I knew something about both of traditions.  And I had asked God, even yesterday morning, to give me guidance.

When the sermon for the morning is spot on to your situation and you, it tends to be a pretty big sign.

Beyond just the sermon - which was a very relevant one to everyone, I suppose - was that moment that I realized that the larger intent of the message had been meant for me.  And my decision, which is now effectively made.

There is a certain reticence and reluctance, at least for me, when something like this happens.  The sort of thing that says "Is God really speaking to me?  Me?:"

The response, of course, is simply "Well, you did ask of course.  Why are you surprised when you get one?"

Whoever Will Not Love His Enemies

 

I struggle with loving my enemies.

And yet, I do not have the option.  Christ commands love  "our enemies", not "our enemies that know us and declare themselves as such".  Just "enemies".  The word in Greek there is ὲχθρός,  which means "hater"; literally Matthew 5:44 says "I say to you, love your hater and pray for the persecutor (δίωκοντον) of you (plural "you", speaking to all)".

For those who claim to be His followers, there really is not a choice.

How do I pray for them?  Badly.  The best I can seem to muster is something between a "help them to see wisdom" and "let them see the error of their ways (by thought or outcomes)".  Not great prayers, I know.  We all have to start somewhere.

The only thing that comforts me in these moments is reading of Christians in times past when persecution was physical and being cast out or without rights was not just a theoretical concept but an actual daily fact of life (as it is even our day to many Christians).  How could they love their haters in the midst of torture and robbery and mistreatment?  Likely my failures are a sign of my weakness:  As C.S. Lewis said in Mere Christianity we should perhaps interpret our lack of trials not as a sign we are doing the right thing but a sign that we are weak and untrained soldiers in a world where the battle is raging and those better trained and more skilled are at the front lines.

Will it be noticed?  I have no idea how to answer that.  The easy answer is "I do not know", the less easy answer is "I will not likely know".  But again, that does not absolve me of the requirement to do so.  Like so many things it is not the results that are guaranteed us, only God's presence in the midst of it.

In the end, of course, we will all answer to God for how we lived our lives.  I cannot control anyone's else's actions or reactions except my own.  But I will be very, very accountable for those actions and reactions.

Pollen Bath

Under a slate sky

The pollen of late Summer

calls pollen bearers.

On An Art Festival

During the weekend past, The Ravishing Mrs. TB wished to go to an art festival located at the heart of New Home 2.0 (Big City edition).  Access there is easy enough - a light rail trip of about 40 minutes - and as we did not have any other plans for the day, it seemed like a good idea.

The walk from the train station to the park where the festival was located was typical of the sorts of things one sees in large cities these days, compounded a bit by the fact that it was a three day weekend.  The streets were largely empty, except for the local population of those that do not have a home.  It is easy enough to avoid a situation and the panhandling that I have seen in other locations such as New Home was not nearly as prevalent.  The sidewalk bears the odor of old urine, something that perhaps only the rain will scrub away (we will see when Winter comes, although has its own health issues I imagine).  The buildings of what was probably a thriving local ethnic downtown are faded and for the most part empty, driven out (likely) by a combination of increase of rent and decrease of business caused both by a move to the suburbs and an unwillingness to make a specific trip and step through or around people to get to one's favorite restaurant. 

These days, one can usually find an excellent restaurant much closer to home.

---

The art festival itself is located in a central sort of park for one of the city's historic districts. Signs proclaiming "City District Art Festival" begin to dot the poles as we come near.  One cannot miss the festival itself:  a long rectangle of portable chain link fencing marks out the section of the park dedicated to the arts, useful sign holders in bright yellow jackets stopping the traffic to allow people to cross from one side of the park to the next.  The private security guards are discretely packed away in the corners.

Inside, a series of small tents hold the arts and artists from at least half a dozen countries that I can count.  The artworks themselves are for the most part marvelous creations, the sorts of things that people with real skill can create.  Every medium is represented:  jewelry, glass, metal work, printing, paper, photography, sculpture, wood work, fiber - even local handicraft organizations have demonstration booths.

The crowds themselves are the sorts of people that one usually associates with this sort of art show, the sort of people that - on the whole - likely are not the type of folks that agree with me on most things.  Yes, I know, it is perhaps false to judge things purely based on appearances and half heard conversations - but one gets a sense for things after time through dress and attitude and conversation. No-one is rude of course, or impolite - but there is a vague feeling as we walk up and down the aisles that I am, once again, out of place.

The artwork, while exquisite, is expensive:  small prints of delightfully painted birds on old tea bag material runs $75 while a blown glass trio of flowers is $3200 and a wire frame sculpture is $4500.  These are artists are not fools:  they are here because they believe they can make more money than it cost them to generate the work.

Obviously, I am far from my price range.

---

As we leave the festival, within 50 feet we re-enter the zone we originally started in:  the buildings are dour and closed off or in the process of reconstruction (likely for apartments).  The park continues and we walk up.  I marvel at the apparent itinerant inhabitants:  a man with black sweatpants and no shirt on who thumps the garbage can and walks away, the small groups of two or three sitting and discussing things, the man sleeping underneath the sculpture that looks pretty neat but is not something we can see now. In the center of one block we see a small playground where a father is carefully watching his children as they frolic over playground equipment.

As we re-enter the city portion, the same largely empty and grey streets greet us.  Traffic is light, but so are folks like us who are clearly not from around here.  The ground level floors sometimes hold businesses or sometimes have "for lease" signs or sometimes are just empty.

Reaching our stop, there is a series of handicraft stores that are open on this almost empty street.  The items themselves are lovely as I look in the windows.  Looking up, I see a security guard in what I assume is a tactical vest walking the beat around the building.  She nods at me, I nod at her.  We step into one of the stores and look until the ring of the train indicates our tourism is at an end for the day.

---

Riding back, I marvel at the the sights I have just seen.

The contrast could not be made more clear by the foil of the art festival in the midst of the general run-down nature of what was once a proud neighborhood.  Fenced off to clearly control access and protect valuables and keep the peace. inside were artworks valued (all together) at hundreds of thousands of dollars.  It is hard to put an estimate on the net worth of the individuals present there - of course some were probably tourists like ourselves - but it is also fair to say that there were people of significant financial worth at that event.  

At the same time, walking up the street, I saw three people sharing a sandwich, eating it as quickly as they could.

The festival ended that day; the tents came down and the artists and their works traveled back with them from whence they came.  As the tide returning, the world that was kept at bay for a little while has undoubtedly rushed back in.  Likely you will be unable to go today and tell there was anything there at all.

The irony?  In many cases the people who came to stroll around and see art (and be seen) will likely be the same group of people verbalize how ugly this part of the city has become, how undesirable - perhaps even unsafe.  They will on one hand support and enable those that create policies that make such things possible and then decry the conditions that these policies have created.  It is a vicious circle that in a way begins and ends with them - but they try to look through the mirror to what is beyond, never seeing the reflection.

---

The train comes to a halt at our station.  Above and to our left, the rabbits wait in their room for dinner.

The Collapse CLX: Heat And Death

26 August 20XX+1

My Dear Luclius:

The heat continues.

I would not bother to write you of such an update specifically – except that with enough heat, death follows as well.

We have had two such incidents since I wrote you last. In both cases they involved “older folk” (thus, people in or around our age bracket, or just “folk” as you and I would call them). Of the two, one is not completely unexpected given what has been going on: an older fellow, a widower, who simply fell to the ground in the mid-day heat as he worked in his garden. We assume mid-day; he was not found until later by his wife and by then whatever the cause of death was, it was not self evident. He was just there, lying up, looking at the sun, a hoe still clutched in one hand.

The second was both less visible and less pleasant, an older woman living on her own who had not been seen by her neighbors in several days. When someone finally broke in, they found her on her couch in the living room. As you might imagine, several days in an enclosed space did nothing for the appearance or the smell.

Thankfully, in this case, young people with better stomachs than I helped get her out.

Burial in such circumstances is not the mourning of our past lives, as I have written before.

There is no formal graveyard in this town, so as people have passed away to this point we simply found a place on the other side of the road – as far as is reasonable possible to drag a body and be away from the river – and made that the town graveyard. The digging for both of these started in the early evening – given the temperatures it was either evening or morning but given the condition of at least one of the bodies, the sooner the better.

We dig in turns – you cannot effectively get more than one person in a grave as it turns out without severely impacting the ability to dig effectively. The soil here, thankfully, is not the compacted hard dirt of my home and even with this last round of heat, still moves pretty effectively. And so the pattern goes: one digs, someone else piles the dirt for convenience. On it goes, stepping out and in, until the proper depth is reached.

In the first event – the older man – his wife was there as were her neighbors as we lowered him in. For the second -given the condition of the body – we just put her in the ground and covered her up as quickly as possible; friends could come after the fact.

The services in both cases were brief and to the point: we have no formal pastors here and so we do the best we can. I have an old Anglican prayer book and can read the service for the dead, although I am not Anglican: “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” and so forth. A quick Lord’s prayer, and we are done. The grieving and comforting comes after, of course. Perhaps someone will have a wake someday, although that has not happened yet: given the state of the world, the idea of celebrating with food in a time of potential want seems wasteful at best.

As we set the first body in and watched the crowd disperse, Young Xerxes and I made eye contact. As the few members of his family and friends dispersed, he walked up to me.

“How many?” he asked, sotto voce.

My raised eyebrow sufficed for the question I did not understand.

“How many by next year?” he asked again.

I looked, and shook my head. “I have no idea” I replied. “More for sure”.

It is sobering, Lucilius, to look at everyone around you and in a real way, realize they are the walking dead.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2024 Turkey: The Dardenelles

 The Dardenelles is a 38 mile/61 kilometer long passage which separates the continent of Europe from the continent of Asia.  It varies between 0.75 to 3.73 miles/1.2 to 6 km wide. The Greeks and Romans knew it as Hellespontes, or Sea of Helle (from the Ancient Greeks' story of the golden fleece, when the sister of the brother and sister duo that rode the flying golden ram fell off into the ocean.  In a somewhat uncommonly happy ending, she ended up becoming a sea princess and marrying Poseidon).  

In Turkish it is called  Çannakale Boğazi, or Straits of Çannakale (that being our planned destination for the evening).

The English name "Dardenelles" is taken from the time when two forts - the Dardanelles- stood on either side of the strait guarding it, thus controlling access (not dis-similar to the two forts on either side of the narrowest point of the Gulf of Corinth when we were in Greece). The forts were named after an ancient city Dardan, which in turn pulled its name from the ancient Greek (probably mythical) Dardanus, a son of Zeus.

Beyond just service by ferry (in the foreground) the straits are now served by the 1915 Çannakale Bridge (since 2022).

As may be clear both from the pictures and the physical description, these straits had major economic and security implications.  Whoever controlled the straits controlled both the cities beyond them and the trade all throughout the Black Sea.  During the invasions of Greece in the Greco-Persian wars, it was at the Dardenelles that the Persians (twice) built pontoon bridges of boats against the current to cross into Europe.  Having now seen the water flow itself, I assure you that was a Herculean task.

The European side has a city, Gelibolu, which has the same name as the whole peninsula.  We know it, anglicized in a slightly different form, as Gallipoli.

What do you do when you are by the sea?  Have fresh fish for lunch, of course!

Efes beer (pictured below) appears to be the "national beer" of Turkey.

Crossing the Bridge.  Welcome to Asia!

2024 Turkey: South To The Dardenelles

 After spending a few days in Istanbul, it was time for us to begin traveling around Turkey.  To do this, we would need to cross over into the Asia part of Turkey (which comprises 97% of the country).  You can do that at Istanbul of course as the city is built on both continents; as we were headed towards the South and inland, we headed down the European side to the Dardenelle Straits.

The body of water you see in the background (here and below) is now called the Sea of Marmara (named, as it turns out, for an island from which marble was extracted). To the Greeks and the Romans it was the Propontis, the sea before the Pontus, which we now call the Black Sea.

As this is the major route to the Black Sea, there seemed to be innumerable ships waiting to make passage.

The land, as you can get from the pictures, seems largely rolling hills or even flat.

A picture from a typical road stop. We made these every sixty to ninety minutes or so.  

End Of August/Labor Day Weekend 2024 Grab-Bag

 (Note:  All pictures as found from the New Home 2.0 Vicinity)

Greetings on this 2024 Labor Day - Another obscure holiday which used to mean "something something 'Celebrate Labor'" but is now is just another excuse to take a day off.  It certainly makes a handy end of the Summer marker:  now the long haul to Thanksgiving.  There has been enough "minor things" to report that just lumping them altogether made the most sense.

The most important news is that The Ravishing Mrs. TB has been here for almost the full week, departing tomorrow.  As you might imagine, we have had a pretty busy time -when she is in town, she likes to go.  Somehow we managed to accommodate travel along the scenery pictures here, a visit to the local zoo and local wood museum, a long drive to through the country to a local flower festival, and whatever we are going to do tomorrow.  She brought another suitcase full of things and we made (yet another) list of things we need to have her bring during her next visit.

One big advantage of her arrival?  An actual USB keyboard.  Being able to type again at regular speed is an amazing thing; you do not realize that you miss it until it is gone.

Last Thursday I got my two upper wisdom teeth out.

For years the agreement with all of my dentists has been as long as I could keep them clean (I had all four), I could keep them.  At a recent dental visit in July, my new dentist announced it was time:  they were angled out and acquiring cavities.  So out they came - delayed, of course, until The Ravishing Mrs. TB could be here if something went horribly wrong.

The whole thing took a bit under two hours, including the application of the application of local anesthesia - really one hour for the main show of "pulling". Seeing one's teeth out after being in the mouth for 50 odd years with perfect roots was a surreal experience, as is suddenly being able to sweep my tongue around the back of my upper teeth - have people always lived this way?  

I am happy to report no significant health impacts other than a lot of napping on the day of the removal.  No significant pain either - although I happily took the codeine prescription that was offered.  Given the state of the world, you never know.

One of the fun things about the drive we took was the stop at a fish hatchery.  I will almost always stop at a fish hatchery; they really are just the coolest thing ever.  This particular hatchery had salmon, trout, and sturgeon.

There are a great many rivers and waterways here.  Who knows.  It almost makes me want to take up fishing again, something I have not done in almost 40 years.  Many things that are old seem new again.  Maybe this is one of them.

All of my children's school years have commenced.  Nighean Gheal  has received here assignment in Cheongju, the capital of North Chungcheong province.  She will be between three schools, including a rural school with only six students.  Apparently there is not specific lesson expectations.  She has said it has been related to her that her students like her.

Nighean Bhan started her practicum at a local school in New Home, where she will be providing help to local students at a grammar school.  And Nighean Dhonn has started her classes in New Home in Classical Studies.

All my children have already exceeded me in so much of their education.

Plans continue to evolve for The Ravishing Mrs. TB's full time relocation here.  We have not really set a firm date, but as we talked it through although it would be great if she could be here in October, financially it would make a lot more sense if she delayed her relocation until February of 2025 (which is when we anticipate having some extra income on the house in New Home).  Plans are still kind of up in the air at this point - she technically has told her work September was the end of her time there, but they have not really started looking for a replacement yet, so maybe they would be open to extending her through the next year.

(In case you were wondering, she is scheduling to be back out her in early October after a trip for almost two weeks, in Old Home for a weekend in November as we discuss the estate, and for Thanksgiving with Nighean Bhan and Nighean Dhonn - as well as me going back for a few days at Christmas.  So it is not like I will not see her between now and then.)

A prayer request, if you are up for it:  I am continuing to struggle with finding a church - not that I have not found two, but that I am struggling with actually finding my way in either of them.  I am realizing that I need to find my place in one of those traditions.  Both are more that acceptable and theologically sound; I just do not know which one.

But reassured:  Life is very good indeed.

Acquire Humility

 

An August Walk In The Woods

 I had not intended to take a walk - after all, I had things to do  before I returned back to the life that continued on without me this weekend, the whirling and scrambling of the modern world currently past my sight and sound.  But the morning remained too cool and beautiful to ignore its allure and the chairos - that Greek word for "moment in time" - might never come again.

And so, I walked.

The dampness of the soil belied the dry brown of the native grasses that is typical here in August, the last long pull before Autumn comes with the distant promise of the rains of Winter.  The combination of my foot sinking into the soil and the crackle of grass as I walk which should not have arrived for another three months or so strikes me for its incongruity.

The morning is clean and cool, the overcasting clouds that brought rain the day before departed.  The world has a fresh cast to it as it often does after such a rain, the sort of thing that I think should always happen after a rain but so seldom does.

I walk along the Long Road, the road that is - per the property lines - the actual deeded driveway here.  It has never been used as such as long as my family has been on this land as we have always used the shorter route across the other properties that surround this island of sanity - or at least we have been using it since the 1940's.   The right of way is now so established that if one is to electronically map this location, the name of the dirt and gravel road will be that of The Ranch.  One of the few times that tradition supersedes modernity.

It comes to mind I never told TB the Elder that.  He probably would have just listened and nodded his head, knowing that simply was the way it was always meant to be.

The detrius of Winter has been cleaned out as I walk, likely by The Cowboy and The Young Cowboy.  One can clearly now see the areas where new growth is going on, where trees have fallen and allowed the great Battle of Light of The Forest Floor that has been going on for ages to begin its eternal renewal.

Across the Lower Meadow the remaining horse looks up from his grazing at me, wondering if I am food bearer or close enough to be one.  It grazes away with the cattle now:  a pair of deaths this year left it the sole survivor of its kinds. From a distance I cannot tell if the cattle are an acceptable substitute.

I wander my way down as the canopy overtakes the road.   It muffles the noise well enough, allowing the idea that I move through a muffled green tunnel pushing out all but the sounds that belong here.

As I approach the Lower Gate, the sign of the limits of our property adjoining the others, I surprised to see a small black and white form working its way of the road:  A skunk making its way to wherever skunks go at this time of the day, oblivious to me as I was to it.  It makes its odd lope up the road - front back front back - its tail bobbing a second after its body.

I attempt to shoe it away with my voice but the skunk remains strangely unmoved by my verbal commands.  I stand my ground for a moment - then carefully work my way up on the side of the road; no sense in reckless courage.  I wait for a bit but the skunk does not come by.  I finally peer back down to find that skunk has not advanced.  It sees me and begins making its way down the trail - periodically stopping to turn its back to me and raise its tail.  Familiar enough with the old stories, I wait patiently until something on the road grabs its attention, perhaps a last minute meal.  

I will not make the Lower Gate today.

The Lower Gate.  In a way the end of the world here, just as the front gate that we pass through on our way in with its metal arch that gives the name of this place and the names of my parents is the entrance.  The Main Gate is welcoming in that sense, a celebration of always coming.  The Lower Gate is not so with its single cattle panel design:  "Beyond me lies monsters" it always seems to say to me.

I realize in a brief moment of awareness that there was time that I believe in monsters, and then a time that I did not.  Now, I realize, I believe in them again - even more.

I start making my way back up the road, always an enlightening activity as it seems seldom that I actually avail myself of the opportunity to look at the same things but from the reverse side.   In a city or urban area this is much less of a thing:  houses and landscaping and industrial parks seldom change for the better no matter how you look at them.  Here, change is common and and almost everywhere I look, presenting me with small tableaus and frozen moments completely unexposed to me as I head down.

As I pass a fat pine tree,  I realize our local variety of "Poison X"  is turning red as if if were already Autumn.  That it would be such a forerunner seems odd to me; that it is doing this is not comforting, perhaps signs of a bad Winter in-bound. My Great Aunt who owned this property, with her extended memory almost back 100 years, might have recalled.

As I make my way back down the road the House rises up above the bottom of small hill that it sits on, framed by the living green and brown of trees on a dry brown canvas of spent grasses.  The sun dapples through the trees as the cerulean blue sky sits behind it:  a testament, the physical remaining testament as it were, of the land here and my parents' love of it and their intent in some way to see it preserved.

Sighing, I begin the trudge up the hill.  The world awaits me.