Chaman, Taman and Chemodan

Seems like a title for a great post.

/ˈsɪdni/, Lavash and Turkey Sandwiches

Last year, I told a doc that I had been living in /ˈsɪdni/ for a few years, and his answer was, "Oh, yeah ... I have some patients from there."  I was amazed.  I had found this guy on a great reference, and I began thinking, "Okay ... there is some common ground here."  But ... maybe you clicked the link ... maybe you found out that his there was really here and not the there that took me over there nearly a decade ago.

Today I started thinking of her ... my beautiful home of nearly three years.  Why did I go there?  Why did I remain?  Where was I?  What does she mean to me now?  Wait.  Why did I just write 'she'?  Is it a clue?  Is my subconscious mind telling me something?  Why is Sydney a 'she'?  Why?

-Two vukas and soup, praise.
-Two screwdrivers?
-Uhuh.
-35 rubles.
-Thank.
-Here, A.

Red wooden beads.  Suddenly.  Suddenly.  Suddenly, we are in a small room.  A woman lying next to us smiles and offers a pipe.  But gaze, our gazes are locked.  Something has happened.

-Sexy-liter of Muskovskya, please.
-Half-liter of Moskovskaya?
-Uhuh.
-10 rubles.
-And juice, do you have pineapples?
-Yeah ... J-7 or the cheap stuff.
-J-7
-55 rubles.
-Oh, and the lavash.
-10.

Poured out, it is gone in five minutes.  We fuck.  We are gone for three hours ... then three weeks ... then I am gone forever?

-When I walked into the AMEX office and saw a month's worth of letters I felt my heart fly out to you, but it had already happened.
-What happened?
-Something horrible happened in Bishkek ... something horrible.
-What happened?
-I can't do this.

I am running through the forest near my parents house.  It is totally dark.  I trip and roll down the banks of the lake.  A large boulder stops me.  Screaming.  Screaming.  Something comes out ... I punch myself in the face.

-I'm going to Sydney for the weekend.
-(I can't stay here)
-You can stay here with my parents.
-(I can't stay here)

Somehow.  Somehow.  I'm on, on, Coogee Beach.  Arden St.  Trop Cafe.  It's warm ... hot actually.  I am apart from the beautiful world that whizzes by.  The backpackers is dirty and loud.  Someone had sex in the 20 person dorm out in the open last night.  I see some beautiful sandwiches.  White bread.  Piles of vegetables, mountains of meat.  I order, and what I receive is ... is not what I want.  Two pieces of white sliced bread ... mayonnaise ... cranberry sauce ... thick-sliced turkey ... camembert.  The haze turns into a rain cloud ... and I force the creation down my throat while the sticky tears roll over my cheeks.

She is Sydney ... I guess.  Is the sandwich her?

Bread Rehab

Two years ago, I set out to use bread as a crutch in my attempt to recover from a serious illness.  Life happened.  I became employed.  I stayed alive.  But, I never really did recover.

Now, I want to re-invent Bread Rehab with the hopes of navigating through the slew of memories that occupy my mind so frequently.  Thus, we might be talking about bread baked and shared rather than attempting new experiments ... but our prism will still be the mighty хлеб.