Silk Road, White Cane

Traveling blind involves a terrifying sense of immanence: even a casual walk through an unfamiliar airport can produce, at least in me, a small vertigo. In the Istanbul airport I found my white cane, that universal emblem of blindness, produced no cautious response. I was pushed, shoved, bumped, and in some cases walked over by travelers impatient and hustling to their flights. I felt like I was walking a thin ledge.

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White cane incident: in Taskent, visiting the Writer’s Union, the tip of my cane got trapped in the elevator door. I let go. It stood straight out, horizontal, caught in the closed mechanism. Several men shouted in Uzbek. Embarrassing international incident in south Central Asia. Three men attempted to pry the door open and succeeded in freeing my stick. The whole thing was vaguely Freudian in a quasi utilitarian way.

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Heading to Samarkand on the fast train. Going to a place of turquoise domes! Capital of the ancient Silk Road! Capital of the silk empire. I wonder about the blind who surely recited stories in the old city. I will ask my writer hosts about this.

Random thought: Spinoza, had he been acquainted with Darwin, would have relegated the idea of god to a minor category of thought. Darwin explains unlike ness.

Azam Abidov, Uzbek poet tells me there was a tradition of blind story tellers in Samarkand. I want to find out about them and honor their spirits.

Sweet black coffee on the train. A small cardboard container of orange juice named “Bliss”.

Last night the Russian speaking poets of Taskent hosted us American writers at the Sergei Yesinin museum and writing center. Was pleased to see Yesenin had a Victrola and some Caruso records. Od course Yesenin loved music. Was married for a time to Isadora Duncan. I pictured them dancing together to opera records.

A local poet, Russian speaking, who vaguely resembled Frank Zappa played his acoustic guitar and sang a devotional song in memory of Yesenin. The poetry of earth is never dead.

Helpful strangers clutch at me as if I might break with every step.

Random thought number two:

Be it resolved the future is slippery. A man on the street corner reads the entrails of birds. All his happiness is contained by sinister forces of blood and feathers. When you see him he looks like a banker: business suited, vaguely efficient. But the bird intestines have him, they are his true religion, even though he’s never touched a bird, never captured a crow in a trap. The future is wet. Be it resolved the wet pages of the calendar are the oldest devotional book. Be it resolved birds can never fly fast enough.