the fool

Four years ago, we were frantically putting a life behind us. At one point I did buy those one-way tickets. The nights were long, as the war unfolded minute by minute. There were hysterics. There were harsh words flying. I made trip after trip to the dumpsters downstairs, that were already overflowing. Here were books I read E as a child, now sitting in the wet. cold grass. Here were props from my films tucked around patches of snow. The world was running away on fast legs.

Waking up on Saturday, the power is off. After a quick check, so will be the water in a few minutes. We dance that familiar ballet, filling up the tub, pots and pans and stray bowls as the water winnows down to a trickle before it goes away as well.

There is a generous layer of snow on the city again, that downed power lines. There is nothing strange or surprising about this in a third world country - but then I think of friends in the US that get stranded for days with the same outages when a storm knocks things out. If that makes Georgia a first world country or the US a third world one, you will have to tell me. The result is the same - sitting in cold rooms, staring out at a blank white sky, wondering when things will get turned back on, as you do a mental inventory of what is in the fridge that might spoil, as you try to remember candles crammed in the back of a drawer that will be pulled out once the sun sets, if it comes to that. We thumb through books of art. We crack jokes and make tea because at least the gas is still working, but we must light the burner with a wooden match, a point of fascination for a child - the deliciously anticipated strike, the bloom of fire, the whiff of sulphur that tickles their nose. I still remember outages from when I was a child and our wood stove, epic games of Parcheesi wrapped in blankets and going to sleep early, hoping things would be back to normal by morning.

We sit on our hands, saving energy, saying things like “at least it happened on the weekend.” But all the same, the world is turning upside down in another direction, and here we are - little mice in our cartoon home, whiskers bouncing, ready once to again to scurry off if that is what it comes to.

There is an epic card game at the living room table in the afternoon - called “Durak” (the fool). I am sketchy on the rules, and blunder along, followed by slaps to the forehead, regretting my misinformed strategies.

The anniversary passes quietly, eclipsed by another war that is starting, just as close as the one that started four years ago. While we were filling pans with water, there were bombs dropping in Iran. The news trickles in, as our internet connections wobble in and out. Everything is happening at the same time, rolled into one messy sandwich that must be swallowed, like it or not.

The windows are already tired of being stared at.

There are leftovers in the fridge.

The stores are all closed and the streets are dead empty.

There are some potatoes to cook later, rice and carrots, coffee and tea, we will be fine until things get turned back on, whenever that is.

All the same, bombs are dropping like hot rain a few hundred miles away - a dizzying reality check, a sober reminder.

In the evening, the power comes back on with a tremendous blink.

The water comes back the next day.

We keep the bowls and pots and pans full of water after days like this, an insurance policy, a cautious act of preparation, hoping we did not need to do this, but because we did, things might be alright.

The bowls stare back in the dark, unblinking, witnessing our quiet acceptance of this anniversary as we search for warm covers and tomorrow’s sun.

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A quick note - a year ago, I turned on a paid option for these weekly posts and many readers chose to generously support this project. As I see the renewals pop up twleve months later, I am deeply moved.

Thank you for being curious, and for your encouragement.