Treskavec, Enriched

I met a Macedonian guy, studying German at the university in Skopje, and he told me about a German play that takes place in a monastery, with the description "Time stops in these walls." And it is true. Visitors come and go, sometimes they stay the night. An American came a few days ago: Randy, from Texas and DC, working with a firm in Kosovo to help stabilize the region... he specifically working to help facilitate the creation of a court system. Art students come, or architecture students, or professors from various fields.

The guys here aren't looking forward to when summer fully sets in, when the monastery will flood with tourists, all clamoring for Kallist's attention. He is a busy man, the only monk at Treskavec, a place so rich in history that it was built atop a temple of Apollo and Artemis, and the surrounding hillsides are topped by large stones, strange holes cut into them, where ancient peoples once sacrificed to more exotic gods. I've been here over a week now and I still haven't spoken with Kallist about things divine. I do not want to interrupt him when he is obviously enjoying himself conversing at dinner. And what free time he has he spends with God.

It is so easy to lose myself in the rhythm here. Days pass as easily as breathing. I can stare at the sky for hours, or write in my journal, or hang out with the guys. If I am bored, I give myself a little job to do, like picking up litter.

Or I climb a mountain. Like yesterday, crawling up the peak near the monastery, clutching at the metal cross at its top, very slowly turning my head -- fighting vertigo -- to look out at a panorama restrained only by mountains and sheer distance. Perspective loses all meaning at that height: lengths stretch and size dwindles. A flock of little birds danced in the air nearby, flying higher than the peak, clearly having fun.

I have time to think and write. I meditate on magic, and I'm clearly no closer to an impossible goal. But I have changed a bit, learned something of discipline and will. And even as I struggle to internalize these lessons, to really become this man whose ethic I am trying out, I wonder if I haven't found my personal Jerusalem, my Golgotha where an older self will die and a new man -- still resembling the old -- will be born.

Treskavec Monastery

Allow me to explain.

Yesterday, we worked, starting around 9am, digging up earth that'd been put in the monastery's courtyard but over time came to disrupt the water flow. I pushed a wheelbarrow and shoveled (albeit not terribly well). We moved a massive doghouse belonging to Bruno, a Saint Bernard about as big as I am. We occasionally drank Turkish coffee and smoked. We ate at 1 and 6, no meat except for fish, with lots of bread. Night came, and we held a small service in the church at 8; I just listened to the Slavic language roll around the church's stone walls, praying silently my own way. I then strolled outside and looked down from the mountain at the villages below: clusters of lights gathered like phosphorescent algae in the dark. I ended the night hanging out in a room heated by a stove, listening to the soundtrack of a Macedonian movie called "Before the Rain" as one man painted an icon of Saint Michael the Archangel and two other men played chess.

This is a place of heartbreaking beauty. I walked almost three hours to get to the nearby town, Prilep, for internet access, and I'll walk back along the same mountain path... the same path I got lost on two days ago, earning a sunburn and numerous scratches from thorns. But I had so much fun, climbing to the peaks of the mountains to find the path again, more mountain goat than American, stopping occasionally at the natural springs with icons of the Virgin Mary and little Jesus.

I'm learning a little of the Macedonian language, and my hosts are perpetually amazed at this. They are good people, some of them artists, some just working here to help at the monastery. Kallist, the monk, is one of the most fascinating people I've ever met. I haven't talked with him at length; I just like watching him: his hand gestures, listening to his voice, seeing his facial expressions. He is a man of intense charisma. Dressed in the traditional black cap and robe of an Orthodox monk, complete with large beard and bushy eyebrows, if he were angry he'd be terrifying. But when he smiles, it's like the whole room lights up. He is a man of joy. And -- thanks to Macedonian hospitality -- he's practically forbid me from buying food for the monastery... although I'm debating respectfully disobeying and sneaking some kind of fresh fruit into the kitchen when no one is looking.

It's easy to forget the place is on a mountain. But take just one step outside the monastery walls, and the view opens up so big that the head can't take it all in. The rolling hills and spines of mountains stretch out in incredible perspective. It's also easy to forget the world is so big.

It will be hard to rejoin the tourist throngs. It will be hard to leave this insulated, isolated place of peace. But... not yet. I'll stay at least a few days more, perhaps another week. So we can all rest easy for a bit, even as I get callouses on my hands from a shovel, or a vicious sunburn from a mountain too close to the sun, even as I am humbled by a fiercely proud people who believe in modern miracles.

I love you all.

Thessaloniki to Treskavec Monastery

I'm in Greece at present, but only for a few hours until I can catch my bus to Macedonia. I'll return afterward to give Athens a good look and hopefully get out to see Crete.

I'm headed to a monastery I heard about from some French guys in my last hostel. From what they said, the place is run by an Orthodox monk who -- I'm told -- is hilarious. He makes jokes while he gives the historical tour, and the jokes make him laugh every time. Stay there is free, but after the second day you have to help out around the place. For me, that seems perfectly ideal, though there are still some technical issues I'm trying to work out.

The first is getting there. Like most monasteries, this place is pretty isolated. I can't take a bus or train from here to the nearby town, so there's a switch involved. And switching trains or busses always makes me nervous, not the least of which because of the language barrier. The second problem is money. Yes, the stay is free, but I still need to feed myself, and I somehow doubt the nearby town will have an ATM. I'll also need to get ahold of money in the town I'm switching trains in, or I'll have to try and pay for the train ride with tales of adventure and hijinks... without getting hijinked. The third problem is contact. If the nearby town doesn't have an ATM, it's a safe bet that internet access won't be falling into my lap. So for all I know, this post precedes a week of silence which -- I'm sure -- probably makes you all just as nervous as it makes me. But travelling to the near-edge of civilization has its special sacrifices and special rewards.

Ah. And the awesome hostel I left in Sofia, The Rooms, said I could work there if I wanted. As incredibly tempted as I am, I've got to be true to this quest, and that means looking for magic en route to Jerusalem. A side track, out of my way, to Treskavec Monastery is one thing; working in a capital city is another. Though, of course, the option is still there for the return trip. Wonderful folks, truly.

I'm nearing my destination, geographically speaking. The magic I'm looking for still eludes me, but I've learned and seen plenty, including a re-appreciation for the everyday world (which I was seriously lacking when I set out on this quest). I'll get to Jerusalem, hang out for a bit, give one last honest push toward some kind of ascension, then back I come... walking by degrees into the old world with new eyes and hopefully a new, reborn life. There will doubtless be some uncomfortable adjusting, but it'll be worth it to feel like I've found my place in the world, or found a way of seeing the world that's both honest and meaningful (quite a juggling act, that).

Thank you, my guiding constellations. I sail by your lights.

Rila Monastery

First of all, congratulations to the Yang to my Yin on the birth of his son. And, yes, I'll be keeping a lookout for the other six signs of the apocalypse. All my love to you, man.

I've spent the past three days at Rila Monastery, three hours or so from Sofia, a place so isolated the Turks had trouble finding it (and they ruled the area for quite a while). A quiet little place, surrounded by mountains, snowed caps in the distance. Three times I'd leave my cell to listen at the church to their mass, to the rolling tones of their voices. (If my beard gets any longer, I might be able to blend in.)

But now having joined the European Union, the whole nation is still caught in the ripple effect. My guide book's now pretty much useless as far as prices are concerned, and I ate honey and graham crackers yesterday because the powers of capitalism have managed to find what the Turks only occasionally could.

I miss you all. Each day, the ache to return home gets stronger and stronger. But I still haven't yet reached the middle of the labyrinth, and I'd love to pay a visit to some great friends before I fly back to the world waiting to catch me in America.

I pray all is well with you... with all of you. If I had some hardcore magic at my disposal, I'd do what I can to ensure it. As it stands, I have hope; hope sharpened and focused like a ray of light. That, at least, I've learned. So I send a little light your way... you've given me so much already.

Sofia

Due to a 25-hour train ride here from Budapest, I missed the opportunity to hear Easter mass sung by Bulgarian angels. But just today, a little over an hour ago, I went to mass anyway, at a beautiful cathedral here. Eastern Orthodox architecture makes for amazing acoustics. All the singing was done by the priest and another man standing off to the side, who had a rich, resonant voice. The incense was equally thick. I feel... so good.

The Cyrillic alphabet isn't near as intimidating if you consider it came from Greek. A few extra symbols, yes, but I got the basics easily enough. Just unfortunate that my travel book didn't -- for some reason -- have a list of useful phrases in Bulgarian. No matter. I seem to be getting along nicely.

The weather is lovely. I have prayed with focus and adoration. I have but to wait and claim my ascension when it comes.

But there are still obstacles. I looked over the entry requirements for Turkey and Israel, and they are mazelike in their language. From what I can tell, I can apply at the Turkish border for an entry visa, costing $20. I fill out an application, they look it over, they keep it for their records and I move on. Looking at Israel's requirements, I don't think I need a visa as an American citizen who isn't staying very long, but I do need a valid ticket out. Seems as if they don't want me lingering on. Unfortunate to attach such a deadline to such a spiritual city as Jerusalem. But as Zen teaches, enlightenment can come in just one moment. It'll probably take me a bit longer, but I think I'm up to an ascendant marathon.

I love you all so very much.

Budapest, Labyrinthine

We have all been alone in the dark and the quiet.

Have you ever been alone *with* the dark?  *With* the quiet?

In perfect blackness, I can still see a ring of soft red around my vision.  I'm peaceful, walking very slowly, my hand on a muddy rope until that, too, ends.  Then it's just me, the walls, the water, the quiet, and the dark.  And I would breathe it all in.

There were wells.  Three of them.  One of oblivion, one of remembrance... and the third.  The lights came on when I stood over it.  There in the dark, waiting, were cave drawings.  If the inner soul really is -- as the Hindus say -- the exact same thing as the soul of the universe, then personal history is also the history of the world.  So I'd arrived at the place before, or after, Now.  Some place on the other side of the ring, between the tomb and the womb, but not quite alive... not like before.

And it is Good Friday.

Budapest, Enriched

I love you all so much.

The day started out so well.

I went to Buda Castle and immediately went to the labyrinth entrance.  Once a bunker, once a center for Cold War info, now turned into a shamanistic underground path explaining both primordial human and Hungarian history.  It was fantastic.  These people obviously had a solid understanding of Jungian archetypes.  In the little passages, occasionally enriched by some gentle mood music, I met a statue shaman, the world axis, the labyrinth of courage, as well as some other trials representing phases in Hungarian history.  The labyrinth of courage was intended for children and adults with candles.  The goal is to find the sun.  I did it alone, in pitch black, wandering like a blind man until I found the refracting mirror with the lights.  And tomorrow I go back to walk the personal labyrinth -- which must be scheduled ahead of time -- and I'm completely looking forward to it.  I've studied a lot about labyrinths and mazes, and they are like a physical metaphor for spiritual travel.  At one point they were even considered a substitute for a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

The castle itself was alright.  The permanent exhibition of Hungarian art was... alright.

The day started out so well.

And just a few hours ago, I strolled out to relax at a bar and have a drink and write in my journal about an interesting dream I had.  I met two Hungarian women and asked where a good place was.  One said, "Maybe in this direction.   Can we look together?"  I thought, Sure, no big deal, I'll hang out with these two and try and show them not all Americans are bad.  We got to a place, had some drinks, some wine, and then I was presented with the bill.

I tell you this because I love you all.  And I want you to understand what this spiritual quest has become for me.

I got scammed.  The bill was about 120,000 florints (the local currency), which is around $500.  No shit.  I got scammed.  I seriously don't even know how to feel about this.  All at the same time, I feel angry, self-depreciating, utterly hateful, and depressed.  Money is energy in currency form, and I've just lost an aweful lot of it just because I wanted to meet interesting people who came across my path.

I've been scammed.  Jesus God, I've been scammed.

Tomorrow I'll contact the American embassy.  Not because I actually think they'll be able to do anything about the money, but if only to warn other travellers.

I feel...  Hell, I don't know.  I feel alot, and very, very little of it is good.

The day started out so nicely.

Budapest, Interlude

It was like feeling my stomach fall down through my legs, dragging my throat with it. I was talking with some dude trying to get me to stay at his hostel. We were still there at the Budapest train station, and I'd just got off a 5-hour ride from Prague. I grabbed my smokes to light up, then it hit me.

The zippo was gone. Probably slid out of my pocket onto the train seat. And just as I started rushing back to the train, it pulled away.

Joe, I am horribly, horribly sorry. It's taken serious effort not to just cry. Seriously. I forgot my passport one day in Rome, and I freaked out less. I went back to the train station later. I'd drawn a comic-like depiction of the train going to Budapest from Prague, a picture of the train seats with an arrow pointing between them, then a little picture of each side of the zippo.

The police weren't terribly pleased, but one of them did his best to understand (because there was no English to be had). I did my best with pantomime, then thrust the picture into his hands. He took me onto a docked train and had me kinda act it out. Finally he explained this to another cop -- who actually did speak a little English -- and they offered to fill out an official paper (like if I wanted to make an insurance claim). I told them I didn't need any official paper, but the zippo was really important to me. The cop who spoke English looked at me and said, "It's in another pocket now."

So yeah, I feel pretty horrible. And it doesn't help that I haven't slept much. So I'm going to go shower, and sleep awhile, and try and collect myself.

Rome to Prague

I got exponentially more out of the Palatine Hill than I did the Sistine Chapel. It´s a beautiful place, like a cross between a park and a set of ruins. The buildings, some partly intact, are like shadowed little escapes from the noise of the city, especially the ever-present noise of emergency sirens. I strolled down those little alleys, half-hidden by Escher-like buildings that were poured onto each other over the centuries. Alleys on top of roofs and such. Fascinating to look at, even as they confuse the eyes.

And I do have to admit that I enjoyed myself in Rome. I prayed at St. Peter´s. I strolled ancient, ancient streets, and looked intensely at the ruins that had been chained off from the tourists. And I am glad to have had that experience.

Now I am in Prague, and this city is definitely not what I expected. It is far more civilized and first-world that you might initially think, and coming here for a taste of second-world charm and second-world magic has been a bit disappointing. This country is too busy trying to join the world community to have any time for something like magic. There is a lesson there, I suppose... that even magic must wait for the world to be ready for it. But, then, we will not know unless someone tries.

By-the-by, this keyboard is driving me crazy. The z and the y are switched, and I have no idea how to get the apostrophe... or a question mark. So, you get an update sans contractions and questions. Consider this some coincidental declaration from a more erudite world. No questions. No bastardization of the language. I speak as the prophets once did, all because of an unfamiliar keyboard.

I miss you all. I want to come home and pick up my life where I left off... to quickly grow my life into something self-sustaining, then ascendant. But I have a bit more to see, and God only knows when I will ever have this opportunity again.

I picked up a little figurine of the golem. Yes... the golem of Prague. Kinda cute, in a clay-man sort of way. But, then, we are descended of a clay man... the first man... so I suppose he is not so different from us after all.

Take care of each other. I love you all.