by Maria Mocerino
Between one world and another, I’m where I’m at, enjoying the ride.
I take this ride at the end of the day to cruise between two continents. No story. Just becoming. My book on Istanbul is pretty thick. Lots of crazy stories have come out of us. No need for more. War cruised in on the same seas sparkling gold, so violently, cutting me up inside, so pretty. One of the bloodiest most unbelievable acts of savagery. A bloodbath. Crushed Istanbul. Gulls play in the winds, isn’t that pure? Flashes of white: wings, the present moment, a divine time, just being in it. They spin out of control to glide back up, to do it all over again. They’re in it for the ride, just like me. Washing away story, remembering the act of being, communing. Becoming, between one state and another, through strangers, the engine roaring, loud, all systems go. It takes a minute to get somewhere. I don’t know if I lost anything in saying goodbye.
Minarets rising: the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque: the divine masculine and feminine side by side, a moving picture. The peacock of him, the rawness of her. He shows his colors, feathers, ornate and flashy. She withholds, smoky, mysterious. I feel complete on the inside, somehow, wonder against cinematic windows with many people behind me. How to describe it? The Silk Road, a real painting, everything a material: light, the eye that captures it, wet, so alive. I am young, out to sea, the world back there, I can’t even see…I can, but it’s pretty small: Asia. Europe getting bigger, drawing closer to me. A rush. The gulls. Between one world and another, I’m where I’m at, enjoying the ride. Looking forward, sitting back, it’s like being swallowed whole by how big the world really is. Smog floating. Even the worst thing can cast a stunning color, a romance. Navy lapping up something brighter: a new world. Sparkling into the station at golden hour: the ferry. A mosque across the way looks like the future. Bodies — against glass, in chairs, in the library. Some sit, stand, speaking a language I don’t understand, closer to Japanese. I have no idea where I’m going, where anyone is going, but we’re all coming and going, headed for that same final destination… before the last ember burns out. Time, breathing, leaving the dock, a sheet called the sea keeps moving, our world a shapeable thing, but concrete under feet, some things stay the same, permanence.
© Maria Mocerino
Maria Mocerino is currently finishing her first book “Christmas in Naples is a Sport” and writing about the legendary actress Barbara Harris. Her work has been published in The Rogue Mag, The Irish Examiner, Business Insider, and Bending Genres. She was even on the cover of Vogue Italia (2020). They believe her work reveals the psyche and its mechanisms. When she’s not writing, she’s singing and traveling between Italy and Turkey.
Find out more on www.mariamocerino.com.
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