E. E. Cummings (*) had a neat technique for expressing this kind of ambivalence and adding depth to his poetry. He would often pair a word with its antonym, or else a word with an oppositional connotation. The best example of this is probably "my father moved through dooms of love" in which he uses phrases like "haves of give," "depths of height," and the titular "dooms of love" to portray the mutability/multiplicity of both the man he is describing and his own opinion of/relationship to him. Cummings called this idea "knowing around," an awkward phrase that nonetheless hints at the three-dimensionality it evokes. He credited his discovery of it to modern art and reading Freud.
(* Sorry to be pedantic, but see here for why I don't use the lowercase when writing his name, which echoes what I learned doing research for the little book I edited/wrote about his work.)
The most common expression of this kind of thing is probably the word "bittersweet," which Cummings might have coined if it didn't already exist. That's a good word, it conveys a lot, but it has become a little watered down by over usage. Much more interesting to me are those rare words that wield this great power in more subtle fashion--they don't just smash together two antonyms, they quietly embody their own opposites. And like two mirrors facing thus create a kaleidoscope of conceptual depth. The simultaneous slipperiness and density of meaning conveyed by these special words is rather ironically reflected in our inability to settle on a single term for them. Instead we have at least eight: autoantonym, contronym, antagonym, Janus word (after the Roman god), enantiodrome, self-antonym, antilogy, or addad.
Some good examples include fast (moving quickly/fixed in place), refrain (non-action/repetition), weather (withstand/wear away), left (remaining/departed), and sanction (permit/punish). My favorite, however, is the word "cleave" which means both to cling and to split apart.
I found myself thinking about cleaving and contronyms as I sat down to conclude this little travel journal. Especially after I realized this time of year has always been bittersweet for me (teachers out there are nodding their heads and saying, tell me about it). In my youth the end of the school year meant both liberation and the loss of guidelines, brief excitement often followed by ennui and aimlessness, pride of accomplishment and fear of future. These contrary feelings took on even greater resonance at times of graduation. It was also around this time that Lizzie and I left Virginia on a cross country drive to start a new life in California. A year later, it was again when we drove back across the country to get married. Thereafter, it became the time we parted ways for the summer and she went abroad (a time of separation and loss, but also an annual reminder not to take each other for granted). Likewise it was when we moved to Connecticut, and then again to Virginia. After that I thought such periods of push-pull would only be reflected in the lives of my daughters. Except, here I am again, readying both to depart and return, to look ahead and behind, to consider what is left. To cleave.
Things I will miss:
The sunsets. Being able to see one every night is a special privilege. This was tonight's.
The call to prayer. Until this year, for me, the adhan has always been an evocative song of Otherness, the clearest signal that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. A phrase from my book comes to mind--"the soundtrack to an Orientalist mind film." Although it is not as omnipresent here on a college campus as it is in the cities and villages, and though I remain devoutly irreligious, the call to prayer now triggers a different feeling, one more rooted in its actual purpose. To me it says, Stop what you are doing. Breathe. Give thanks. Be mindful.
The Phrygian Highlands. The Phrygian Highlands. The Phrygian Highlands.
The way thunderstorms roll over Ankara almost every afternoon in early summer. Storms have bookended our stay here, actually. There was an epic lightning storm the night we arrived. It lit up our new city like a carnival funhouse and made me instantly love the view from our apartment. Then we got a surprising amount of snow. But now it's all about the thunderstorms and their leviathan grumbling. I've always found this sound comforting for some reason. It makes me feel cozy, even when I am out in the rain. I didn't learn until moving to California that thunderstorms aren't common everywhere. They may not come as regularly, but I am thankful that Virginia always serves up some doozies.
When you are really lucky, you get a thunderstorm, the call to prayer and the Phrygian Highlands all at the same time. With such a triumvirate blessing your senses, it is easy to forgive your daughters for nearly spoiling your already windblown, amateur hour cinematography with their whiny voices.
I will also miss the use of certain phrases that plumb this country's deep well of graciousness and goodwill. I only know a few. Kolay gelsin, which means "may it come easy." You say it to your bus driver, the guy sweeping the street, or the women cleaning your hotel room. It conveys sincere empathy, especially with those who work the hardest for the least pay. I think this phrase should be universalized somehow. Afiyet olsun, "may it be good for you." This is said by someone serving you a meal they made themselves. To which you respond, Elenize sağlık, or "health to your hands." Hoş geldiniz is said whenever you enter an establishment or to someone arriving in a new place. It means "it is nice you are here." The response is hoş bulduk. "I find it nice (to be here)." Although I am ashamed of how little Turkish I've learned, I am glad to have learned these and I was proud to use them often.
A standard response would be to say the food. I do love the food here and I will dearly miss certain dishes, especially döner kebabs, certain kinds of güveç, white cheeses, and man oh man the olives. But America has more variety. And much better beer.
Things I won't miss:
Being mute and powerless. Language is a tool you take for granted until you are stranded without it exactly when and where you need it most. I like tools. I like to be handy. Over here I am not handy. I am handicapped.
Living in an apartment building. Especially the journeyman guitarist who lives above us and played the same handful of blues riffs all year, at all hours, including right now, this very moment. And the woman who lives across from us, who often gets tired of her screaming children, so she pushes them out in the hallway and lets them roller blade back and forth, banging against my doorway for hours. Especially on days they have off, and I am trying to write.
Along the same lines, I certainly won't miss the military helicopters that are forever running mysterious sorties from some unseen base in yonder hills to an equally mysterious destination beyond our building. What are they doing? Why are they doing it all day long? Alas, I will never know, and maybe I ought to be reminded of the world's state of perpetual war but it sure spoils my concentration.
Something small that will never be the same:
Honeysuckle. It's everywhere over here this time of year. It follows me as I walk to get the girls from school. It wafts up to our balcony from the big bush across the street. Back in Virginia, there is also a honeysuckle bush across the street from my house. For the rest of my life I will probably never smell it there without thinking about it here.
To Cleave or Not to Cleave. That is the question. Yes. No. Either. Neither. Both.
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