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A quick look at a Rivera mural. The Pyramid of the Sun. You no papehouse ruins? Tom was Taurus, not that I particularly believed in the signs of the Zodiac. Mehmet stopped the car. We were in a parking lot with three or four other cars. I opened my door. The rock was gray, with patches of pink, and I could not be sure if the color came from stone or from lichen. Already in shadow, the right face of the gorge rose straight up, like a loaf of pumpernickel lopped off by a knife. To the left of the gorge, in sunlight still, though I could see a shadow advancing up the wall, stood the higher and less steep half of what had once been one, solid mountain.

Jennifer looked around, threw her hands above her head, and took a big drink of air.

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It locall me not like our guide, though I had locxl him overly attentive until then. I reached back in the car for palheouse bag. Listen to the music of the river. Are we in the real world, or in a place fantastical? Then, the bridge turned into a wooden walkway. Through the knotholes and dex, I looked down at the roiling water. Commob stopped and pointed up. Mehmet cupped a hand to my ear. Families passed, going in the opposite direction, and the rhythms of their different strides made zluts walkway dip and sway. Pricks of pain shot through my ankle. Built out over the river were two tea shops, one with reclining pillows and low tables, and the other with wooden chairs. I wondered if this was where Mehmet wanted to stop for tea.

Hoping so, I decided to catch my breath. Mehmet, without looking back, continued his forced march past the little cafes. The walkway ended, and he hopped down onto the bank of the river. Continuing his long strides, he leaned forward and hooked his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans. Jennifer ran to catch up. They spoke a moment. She gave me a roundhouse wave. I stepped down onto the sandy bank, and not far ahead, saw a wooden bookcase divided into cubbyholes, like the old post office boxes in the hotels of my youth. In each cubby was tucked a pair of plastic shoes.

Kneeling on the ground, an old Turk in a red fez had begun fitting the shoes. Mehmet and Jennifer sat on a tilted bench. Mehmet brushed it back. Jennifer offered her place. I looked down at her shoes. They were like Mary Janes. Through clear plastic, I could see red toenails. Then I must carry you. Mehmet motioned for me to sit back down.

If I carry she, I fall down, too. She had one of those tiny cameras that hooked up to her computer. I patted my Nikon. Carefully, he began folding the hem of his pants, creasing each fold with his nails in a gesture that reminded me of a child folding a paper airplane. At one moment, he could run down a child, and in the next, be the boy himself, worried about ruining his precious pants. Jennifer tied the Indian fabric of her skirt between her legs and waded in. A wave bounced against her back, soaking the fabric. Her thong undies showed through.

Mehmet look up, tugged the folded hems of his trousers above his knees, splashed through the water, and took her hand. I turned to the man in the fez kneeling at my feet. His wool sport coat was a size too large, and of a color that was neither brown nor gray, more like a rags Turks used when they mopped the floor. The bench shifted, creaking like a long closed door. He untied my shoelaces and matched the soles with a pair of clear plastic slippers. He left on my support hose. My ankle would thank me. I wondered what I should tip and wished Mehmet had not left me stranded here. I took out a fifty lira note, and the man shook his head no, flattened his palm and traced three hundred on it.

I gave him that, and he examined the bills front and back, then nodded for me to go. Across the channel, Jennifer and Mehmet waited on the gravel bank. Further upstream, just beyond them, I could see that the river was just a trickle through that branch of the canyon. The water surging through the channel came from water spilling from crevices in the cliff to my left. They were like jets in a fun park, but where the springs joined at the bottom, a milky plume fanned out. Two men, their shirts open and shorts turned up, headed back in my direction. I waited to see how they crossed. Before plunging into the current, they slid down the gravel embankment and walked along the opposite canyon wall, putting one hand against the rock for balance.

I could do it. His sunken jaws and gray whiskers made him look like the poorest of the poor, someone whose existence was so precarious that working for this shoe concession was the best he could do. When I stepped in the water, a volt of ice raced up my right leg and exploded in a fireball against my heart. Cubes of ice caught in my throat. The current dragged my right leg sideways. My feet slipped, and to keep my balance, I stepped out into the flow with my left foot. Water up to the hips. The effort to stay upright. I started to sit down. One step at a time, he pulled me to the other side, scrambled up the loose rock, turned, and wrestled me from the water. Jennifer grabbed my forearm.

I staggered to a boulder. She kissed the top of my head, and my cheeks winched up. Mehmet looked over his shoulder and ran a hand down his face. How careless of me. No love lost between the Turks and Greeks. Jennifer bent over, hands on her knees. Does that sound like a plan? Mehmet took off his river shoes. In bare feet, he started down the canyon. Jennifer, in plastic slippers, hot-footed to catch up. They vanished around a bend. The boulder I sat on came to a point, so it was kind of like sitting on the apex of a teeter-totter. The gouging in my rear made my foot tingle. My leg was going to sleep. Shadows began to cover the canyon floor. The pools of violet water looked shallow.

I forced myself to stand. Rocks dug into my feet. Though I clapped my arms and hugged myself, my teeth chattered. Two Turkish families passed me, coming out. The men, with small children on their shoulders, waded through the rushing water, followed by their wives, women who delicately lifted their heavy skirts and made the crossing look easy. The pain of walking on the rocks would be limited to a dozen steps. I would do what the two men had done earlier, work my way along the canyon wall, then make a dash across the channel. The water deepened and the current sucked my feet. With each step, my feet turned more wooden.

My shoes slipped on the stones, but I could not feel the stones themselves, and my purse and camera swung in opposite directions, like dual pendulums of a manic clock. I gasped and looked downriver. If I fell, it would be a quick trip. Somewhere down there, the channel would widen, and I could just float until I saw a sandy riverbank. It was the stones. The stones were killing me. I lifted my camera and purse, holding them above my head, and the water rose to my waist. In rainbows of spray, the old man appeared. He took my hand and pulled me from my crouch, then dragged me toward the shore.

The old Turk scrambled up the bank and leaned toward me, holding out his palms. I put my hands in his, and he pulled me to dry land. His red fez covered his gray, clipped eyebrows. He undid the buckles of the hateful slippers. He balanced my right foot on his thigh and, with a dirty towel, wiped my leg from the knee to the ankle. The towel, and his fingers squeezing, did not so much move down my leg as caress it, squeeze it as if shifting all the muscle-ache and tiredness right down through the weary arch of my foot and across the rock-bruised balls.

He discarded the towel, reached under the hem of my skirt and found the rolled top of my stocking. He slipped it down my leg. The tips of his fingers touched my skin. He closed his eyes. I gripped the splintered bench. His fingers clasped the sides of my feet. With my stockings off, he separated my toes and examined them one by one. I wiped my eyes. His hands warmed my feet. He reached back for my shoes, loosened the laces, and pulled up the tongues. The hollow bunion holes and comforting arch supports made me smile. He sprang up from his squat, and with a furtive gesture, pushed my stockings into the pocket of his pants. He nodded, and then flapping his arms, pointed to the tea shop.

Maybe the tea shop was about to close. Warm tea would feel good, and Jennifer would be none that wiser that her hypothermic grandmother had almost drowned. Giddy with relief, I stopped at the first table. A waiter brought apple tea in a glass cup, two cubes of sugar, and a tiny spoon. He smiled and looked in my eyes. I stretched my legs and leaned back. Learning to speak the language was what I had always loved about being in a new posting: Warmed by the tea, I watched Jennifer and Mehmet slog back through the water. Wet from the waist down, Jennifer sat on the bench, and the old man knelt before her. With the same towel, he wiped her feet. Jennifer looked up at Mehmet, who spoke sharply, then swatted the old man with the back of his hand.

The man in the fez threw the towel to Mehmet and hobbled away. While she put them on, he rolled down his pants, slipped on his sandals, looked over, and saw me on the tea platform. He tapped Jennifer on the shoulder. She looked over and frowned. A moment later, Mehmet and Jennifer stood by my table. But then, of course, not. At the next restaurant, low Turkish couches were covered with faded, brick-red rugs; silver tables shimmered in the raking light. With me on one couch and Jennifer and Mehmet on the other, our guide leaned back, sighed, and dipped his hand in the river. Above, caves dotted the sheer rock wall. I stretched my legs. Jennifer smiled and finger-combed her ponytail.

They had no idea what that meant, the difference between old when you could still do things, and the old I was now, when I had to be careful what I attempted. The waiter arrived with tea. Steam rose from the glasses. At the distant opening of the canyon, a fireball of light hovered above the water, and I thought of the River Styx, the underground stream into which all life disappears. As if accidentally, Jennifer let her foot graze his. I can move feet if in your way. I remembered the footsie dance. Mehmet shouted to the waiter.

The tea appeared before me. Clinging to the sheer rock wall were shrubs with dark green leaves and white blossoms. Like paper torn in squares, a cloud of butterflies floated above our heads. Blown by the breeze, the butterflies drifted away. I settled into my pillow, picked up my tea, and took a sip. Framed by rock walls, far down the canyon a persimmon sun hung above an indigo stream. Through sinews, sliding down the aorta, veering around the vena cava, trekking over the mountain tops of the atrium and entering the pulmonary artery. Swoosh into the vacuum of your right ventricle, down, down, down into your hungry depths, the pressure pounding in my own blue veins, into the Tunnel of Approach.

Bright, bright distant lights casting shadows on the scarlet cavern walls. There are JB, Barrett, and Michael on the shiny tiled floors of your high school, drinking vodka in the woods and on couches in the basement. There are Ryan and Caroline on their wedding day, white-dressed and tuxedo-adorned, rejoicing on the steps of the red brick Baptist chapel. The girls you loved before me standing shyly in the corner. Then I see myself in a wool hat at sunrise. Tiny infinite shards of absolute fluorescent perception. And with further approach impossible I seek desperately to squint against the glare but catch only a glimpse of them. Plywood, metal, and mortar rising haphazard from the dust, hemmed on three sides by a trash dump: This is La Carpio.

Shacks and cinder-block cages with children, slender children, playing in the dust, in the doorway. A bottle three weeks shattered— dulled pieces glistening in the dirt. Little sister holding smaller brother, soothing tears drawn by broken glass. Avivamiento—steel beams, gray blocks— a little church, standing in the corner of this town within a town. This is La Carpio: Rock and dirt, brown chalk-smudge, behind a red hibiscus clinging to a barbwire fence. My twentieth birthday this past July was no different, unless of course you count spending multiple hours searching a compost facility for a body something different. At the moment, the plant was a crime scene, which meant she had to record exactly who came and went.

In typical fashion, Roy decided to be sarcastic. The officer stopped writing and shot a quizzical glace at Roy. Well, you wanted everybody, right? I mean, they are the brains of the operation. The officer was only slightly amused. The other guy is parked right over there. She pointed to a silver SUV. We parked in a partially shaded loading dock. To our right, I could see through an open doorway into a large warehouse. Mounds of what I considered pure garbage were piled twenty feet high. Of the tons of garbage the plant received daily, anything organic was directed towards the composting section.

Soon, they would be pushed into the open composting tubes in the floor behind them. I opened the door and stepped out. The sickening stench of the plant hung in the air. I looked down and thought back to a project in elementary school when we used lint to make paper. On Location, a month of queer interventions in New York City spaces. He lives in Brooklyn, NY. She works as the director of a non-profit arts center near Seattle, and thrives off of black coffee, great art experiences, and the people with whom she shares them.

He is an editor at Krupskaya, and occasionally publishes small press materials under the imprint OMG! InRoof will publish a new book, Top He was a Navy corpsman combat medic and advisor to the Afghan National Army in Afghanistan from He holds a B. He lives in Austin, Texas. He is co-founder of a copywriting service called Fresh Copy and currently blogs at Thought Catalog. This is the shocking, untold, true story of s rebellion, painted against a backdrop of disco, politics and porn. The film contains interviews with key people in her life, including David Sullivan and also collates fantastic historic footage of the porn print works, footage of old Soho and the surrounding area, perfectly capturing an era that now barely exists.

The workshop will be run by Adele Brydgesa designer and maker of sensual tools based in East London. Following the workshop your piece will be enamel fired and then ready within 3 weeks for discreet postage or collection from The Barge House. What to do it with — and why do it at all? Miss England will guide you through an entertaining scene, providing practical demonstrations on lucky volunteers. The evolving collage is projected over and around live performance, music and spoken word.

The resulting juxtapolsitions suggest meaning, not conclusion, they explore the tensions between order and disorder and probe the fault lines, both personal an dpolitical, that are emerging aroudn and within us every day. The Gender Agenda explores topics around gender, sexuality and identity. All angles and arguments welcome. Shirley Fontaine, director, visionary, pornographer, meets with Frank, a censor whose job it is to decide what cuts would make her latest work acceptable for general release. On the face of it, her film is comprised solely of a litany of sex scenes:

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