ancient mesopotamia: details from a shifting experience
babylon is alive: the central hub of mesopotamia, there is never a dull moment in the twists and turns of the metropolis, no stillness. it is as if nothing ever resolves, but only carries on in fluidity. the colors are a part of that impression; dyed textiles, greenery pushing through stone, sunlight outstretching its arms for an embrace. people rarely pass each other without acknowledgement; there is engagement, conversation, exchange. you are never only an observer. eventually, babylon makes you absorbed.
the river as a spine: the magnificent euphrates cuts through everything, not just the land but the rhythm of the city. boats drift with quiet purpose. the air is cooler near the water.
everything touched is natural: there is nothing synthetic here, nothing pretending to be something else. polyester and processed fakes are entirely absent. fabrics have weight, texture, intention. there is linen, there is silk, there is cotton. it is almost winter, and i wake under wool, perfectly insulated, because a chill is settling over the city.
music is not separate from life: music is not performed for people so much as it exists with them. someone has a lyre, someone has a lute, and the rhythms are constant, shifting, woven into the narrow streets. in the crowded spaces, the beer houses, the music changes. it can get lower, louder, more playful, and sometimes openly suggestive. the crowd laughs and the laughter folds into the melody like it was always a part of it.
markets, the pulse of the city: envision movement in every direction all at once, overwhelming in a way that makes breathing feel like an afterthought. the air is thick with scents, from smoked meats to spices to sweetness. textiles hang in impossible variety, from muted, neutral tones to blinding, show-stealing shades. jewelry sparkles in the sun in a way that makes it look forbidden. voices layer over each other until they are indistinguishable. as nobility, i don't navigate this alone. a servant comes along, sometimes two, parting space where possible. even so, the market resists order. it continues around me, indifferent.
the temples breathe: reverence is not silence here. there is a divine hum, a vibration and energy. the air is overtaken by incense and oil, juniper, cedar, cypress. courtyard sweepers clean the floors, priests see to purification rites, and temple servants bring in supplies. if you stand still, you will realize you are the only one who is.
being constantly attended to (no complaints): i am rarely alone, and when i am it may well be a mistake. there is always someone nearby, anticipating, adjusting, and ever so efficient. mornings begin before i am fully conscious of them, the thick wool blanket is pulled back for me. i am washed, not washing, in my courtyard which opens hungrily to the sky. water is poured, then there is the drying. the oils follow that, worked into the skin, olive and sesame. sometimes they are faintly nutty, sometimes mixed with crushed herbs. there are thicker preparations, too, creams made from waxes, softened and spread. i am dressed, not dressing, in the finest fabrics, expensive and imported.
meals on my table: there is more beer offered than water, to which i have no objections. cups are refilled before they are empty. someone is always watching for that. meat tastes of the fire it was cooked on, with flavors that arrive all at once and linger for a while after. there is no dilution; in fact, spices are added atop generously. fruits are involved in everything. dates appear everywhere, plain, pressed into cake, or in the form of pudding. these, i dislike, but they are so insistently offered and gifted that i won't turn them away.
seeing him: i catch his gaze in the market. i confuse it for the blue fabric i was examining at the textiles stall moments ago, the one i was comparing with the red. he is beautiful as he has been in every reality, but here, i don't know him yet. i know of him. i've seen his seal on tablets, heard his name around, and i know he lives close by, a noble like me. he makes the approach. "your skin takes that red well," is the first thing he says to me, and i realize i'm still holding the red, now tightly. conversation follows, nearing the line that, should we cross it, would lead to impropriety. we talk and it borders on flirtation, but it is reigned in here and there. people listen, people talk, and therefore there is a way to go about these things. he touches my arm briefly, imperceptibly, though he knows he shouldn't. the following morning a gift basket has been left with my servants to give to me, the red shawl from the day before in the market in it. i know who left it, i've known him in every life.
nights: the night sky is cluttered like a concert crowd. never before have i seen the true, full night sky, certainly not in this reality. but, in babylon, it is almost intrusive in its clarity. every star insists on being seen. i want to stand under the sky forever, neck craned back until it aches, begging for balm. when i do stand under it, i hardly know if i'm looking at it or if it's looking at me.
