Sameba Cathedral

November 23rd was Saint George's Feast Day, and coincidentally the anniversary of the Rose Revolution, when Saakashvili and company ran Shevernadze and his Old Boys out of government on a popular ticket to retirement. Interestingly, both Saakashvili and Shevernadze attended the Grand Opening of Sameba Cathedral this 23rd of November and I saw them both, equally surrounded by their teams of bodyguards. Luarsab had invited Wes, Aurelia, and I to go the opening, so we woke up at 5:45am and Wes and I donned formal traditional dress, which are 19th century war outfits called chockas.

The chocka looks like a cross between an Aikido dress, a British Revolutionary-war era redcoat, and Scottish highlander formal dress. Loose silk pants and shirts button up with little balls of thread and tiny loopholes, knee-high leather moccasins come up over the pants. The shoes are soft leather, good for quick footwork in dancing or fighting. On top we wear a thick wool dress coat that stretches down past the knees. When a belt is wrapped high and tight around the waist, the dress coat takes on a striking form giving the semblance of wide shoulders and narrow waist whether you have one or not. The coat continues past the belt looking like a long kilt. Over the breast areas there are two rows of gun cartridges, though now adays we just have plastic pieces in there. Who carries around muskets when you can you use your daggers anyway? We each had black chockas with white trim, silver embossed scabbards for our fifteen inch daggers.

Wearing a chocka is no small event. One must wear the chocka with pride, stepping out gingerly and with smartness in the foot. Chest must always reach for the sky, chin up in proud salute. Belt cinched tight, right hand resting attentively on your dagger hilt, ready at all times to defend your lady. One does not walk in a chocka, one strides.

Decked out in the chockas at 5:45 in the morning. We arrived at the Patriarchate to go by bus with our friend Luarsabi and the Basiani Choir to the new Cathedral Sameba. The morning was cold and gray. The river was dirty and thick of color as usual, not pretty to look at. Priests and chocka-clad choir members bustled about, excitement and disorganization in the air. Finally there was a rush for the buses; buses that would transport us past the police blockades keeping all vehicles out of the Cathedral vicinity due to the expected 10,000 people attending. Aurelia was with us, and I walked arm in arm with her as we were jostled on and off the bus, up the street to the belltower and into the brand new piazza in front of the Cathedral.

This cathedral is massive. Not only is it massive, they chose a building site where the cathedral can be seen from nearly everywhere in the city. It has the distinct architecture of a Georgian church, with a blocky substructure crowned with a squat round tower. The tower is topped by a pointed roof and eight tall thin windows let light down into the central nave of the church. Unlike many European churches, the length of the cathedral is not very long, but rather more cubish, with several smaller church rooms and aisles bulbing off of the main structure. At night especially the yellow stone tower can be seen from miles away because of strong night lighting.

In front of us stood two long lines of soldiers, shoulder to shoulder shivering in the wind. I think they were there more for show than security, and must have numbered in the hundreds as there were two rows stretching for three hundred yards up the stairs from the belltower to the entrance. At the door, we were ushered amid many stairs through the crowd pushing to get in, and taken directly upstairs to the choir loft with the Patriarchate Choir, 'Basiani'. I've befriended these guys, but today was to be special. The organizers had decided to include as many people as possible, so before long, nearly 150 boys in chockas had filed in to the right hand balcony to sing their part, and into the left hand balcony came the Rustavi Ensemble, Lashari Ensemble, several other famous men's groups, and a large mixed choir singing Russian service music. With Basiani we stood in the central balcony and took our singing cues from two frantic young men who conducted at us at the same time, sometimes conflicting in gesture and cutoff as they crained their necks over the wall to see what the bishops were doing far below us. The choirs took turns singing throughout the service which lasted from 8am to 3:30pm.

Inside the Cathedral the space is brand new. An unpainted white plaster makes the massive space even larger, and we stared in awe across and down at the throbbing throngs of people packed behind lines of arm-linked crowd controllers. They packed in so many people that one could have walked across the crowd without a problem at all. Not even at rock concerts have I seen such a packing of people. Later, in leaving the cathedral, we were to experience this first hand when about a hundred people tried to exit the cathedral at the same time as two hundred cold, frustrated people tried to enter the cathedral through the same entranceway. For about sixty seconds we were deadlocked in a swaying mass of bodies, each trying to stay on their feet for fear of being trampled underfoot, those behind pushing, those amidst just riding the wave. It was scary and yet so out of control that I began laughing. I don't know why I did this, but it was such an unusual experience. There was absolutely nothing I could do except to hold Aurelia and Wes close and hope to be spun out of orbit sooner rather than later. Eventually the incoming crowd surged to our left, and the outgoing crowd surged to our right. We were right in the middle and fought desperately to remain in the outgoing surge. I let go of Wes, held Aurelia tight, and spun counter-clockwise allowing ourselves to remain in the same position as bodies moving in opposite directions surged around us. Eventually we were propelled out and suddenly we were free and standing in the wind with our friends, laughing and shaking our heads in amazement.

Priests and bishops from fifteen countries attended the Opening and they were a sight to behold. Orthodox bishops really dress-up. They were wearing off-white golden gowns, the same color as the stone of the cathedral. Countless servers, acolytes, and deacons attended to the gowns, the incense, candles, and books. Serving bishops moved in and out from behind the white stone iconostasis in long lines, thirty at a time. I was so far away in the upper balcony that I couldn't really make out faces beneith their tall hats, just white beards.

I am not Orthodox and so technically I should not be singing in the service, nor even be within the physical space of the giving of communion. At most other Orthodox services I have attended in Georgia it has been courteous for me to leave at the beginning of communion in order to honor their custom. However, we seemed to be the least of everyone's concern at Sameba and since I'm friends with the directors of Basiani, they let Wes and I sing in the service. The guy next to me had sheet music and we basically sight-read through the service hymns and canticles keeping a close eye on the waving hand below us. It was an exhilerating experience to say the least. Standing for six or seven hours is tough on the body though, and I wasn't feeling so exhilerated when I left mid-afternoon.

We spent an hour down on the main level with Luarsabi. It's his job to take photographs, so mostly he left us standing around in the VIP section with representative Anglican, Catholic, Coptic, and Armenian bishops surrounding us. Shevernadze with his team stood about thirty feet from us. A rumor had already spread around the choirs that Wes and I were Georgian royalty returning from exile in Spain, and we carried our princely stature with aplomb. Luarsab is always showing us off at every opportunity, I can't even begin to remember all of the people I have met in the past two weeks.

The altar was consecrated, Divine Liturgy was served, Saakashvili made an unrelated political speech for the cameras, Georgian hymns were pumped downstairs through a PA system from the choirs far away in the balconies. We tried to make an exit at a side door, but there guards were enlisting the help of church-goers in pushing to keep the doors closed against the crowds pushing in from outside. So eventually we had to walk down the central aisle to the main door. Luarsabi is a tall dashing bearded Georgian man, wearing a white chocka, and the three blond Americans (or returning royalty), flanked him between crowds. It was a very odd feeling to be attributed celebrity stature simply by our appearance.

We soon ended our fast and our cold with warm soups, khinkali meat dumplings, and vodka.

Tamada

A Tamada is the toastmaster. A Tamada focuses attention to a single topic of significance, to a mentality of seriousness, to a feeling of deep conviction, to sincere gratitude for what has been given and what has been received. Imagine so many intoxicated revelers, suddenly brought to quietude by a gentle gesture of command from the Tamada. A feeling of respect for the Supra tradition by most Georgians allows for quick attention to a Tamada's proposed toast.
With such intense attention, the Tamada must speak truthfully, succinctly, and from the heart. Words spoken must be concrete, tangible ideas that speak to the guests of the Supra. With modesty and humility, with foresight and a sense for the depth of life, a Tamada must tailor his toasts to his Table. He must pay attention to Tradition and to the knowledge of the ancestors.
This evening I was Tamada, for a group of four friends, all Americans.

Our toasts spoke about Our Meeting and Guests; to Georgia and its gifts to us;
to our Work and Inspiration and to the hopes of young Georgians in rebuilding their country;
Friendships near and far, new and old;
to the Departed, our love for them and their love for us;
to our Future, through political group, community, and individual, may we meld the three and be Conscious in directing our Futures;
to Art, may it inform our lives, may we trust our hearts, and allow art to infuse our lives with hope;
to Protection, to the traditional symbol of the Mother of God, to harboring safe our deep values, and to protecting that which is valuable in the world from an age of expansionism and information over-stimulus.

Georgians speak about these themes with poetic candor. They live with a daily knowledge of what is meaningful while acknowledging what is still challenging. To speak frankly and sincerely on these topics, I gradually grow stronger in my knowledge of myself and of what matters in our thinking, our decision making, and inspiration. I am honored to lead our attention and thinking on these topics.

To the Departed

Tonight a Supra. Brick walls, dim bulbs reflecting their dull, copper-red tones into the basement room. It was cold when we arrived and we stood around, talking about nothing, waiting for something. A little old Georgian man appeared, unlocked seven deadbolt locks, scrounged around in a garage room and showed up with several pieces of wood that looked like they used to form a small bench or bookshelf. Soon a fire crackled away, and with a sigh, we made our formal sitting and relaxed into our chairs.

Toasts to God, to Children, to Ancestors, to Family, ... to the Departed.

This is an interesting toast. It commemorates all those who we have loved and who have departed the physical realm. We cherish these souls, pay our respects, allow space in our hearts for them, and remember their deeds in this world. Most of all we remember their love, and we relive our own love for them. The tamada toastmaster will often specifically name parents or other relatives of those at the table who have departed. We give thanks for their gifts to us, and speak of the lessons we learned from them, or the lessons we wished we had learned from them.

Tonight, Joni paid compliments to Philip. Luarsab followed, saying that he felt he knew the man through knowing me. Ketevan talked of losing her father when she was fourteen, of it feeling like a limb were torn from her body. She said it was a time when she could have disintegrated, but she was able to stay strong in her love of God. Rafael said we teach each other trust. I said there is omnipresent light, a new relationship waiting to be developed, a conflict inside that is only resolved within me. A relationship of openness and closedness, a conflict. In opening to God, God is there. So it feels to me now. Words of comfort, joy, forgiveness, and sorrow. Crystal said I am proud of your forgiveness, the most difficult test of love.

Toast to the Departed.

And to Life, to Faith, and to the Mother of God.
We are singing, and we are listening. I am Dreamer #1 says Ketevan, and Wes is Dreamer #2. I like being a dreamer, it suits me well.

 

Floating

In a daze, what is a place, what is a time? I am in Georgia. I am in a city. People live, eat, breathe, walk around of their own free will. There are tall buildings, and cars that drive at their master's will, headlong around the next corner, oblivious of future destruction, fuel-life, or breakdown. Laundry hangs sodden. Flowers grown and wilt in their boxes. Gravel rests against the curb, skipped there by a passing tire, but not skipped upon by a little boy. The Gravel will wait unexpectantly. Maybe rain, maybe a disconsolate shoe, maybe another tire will move it. Only an outward force can change its position in space. And I, do I move, do I wilt, do I know what's around the corner? Do I have will to move or do I wait for a shoe to kick me too?
This day I float.
There is a cablecar in Tbilisi. It rises in an unbroken sweeping arc all the way up a mountain. One wonders that there aren't more supporting towers in its mile length. One wonders if that single cable can hold you up rising all that distance above the trees below. But wondering does just about nothing good for you, as discovered on my way up and down the elevator in my building every day. And so the city falls away beneath us, the noises, the bustle, people at play in their favorite activities of self-importance. The best one of these is standing around doing nothing. As if there is nothing of importance for one to do. Nothing, just stand still and wait for death.
The cable holds.
This day I float. On the cablecar, floating above the air, and this day floating, it was as if I needed to hold onto the ceiling bar to keep myself from disappearing with the clouds. The wispy cirrus, far above. Did I know an airplane was broken down on the runway at this instant? No cirrus clouds for them today. Only for me if I didn't hang on tightly.
A church would have been nice. But the Soviets built this district and the Soviets didn't build churches. All the churches are in the old city. But we found a new church, just completed last year. Inside it was new, outside it was new. The people there were new too. Newness isn't deepness. But I'm floating, the icons on the ceiling are interesting. New. But they look old like someone knew what they were doing.
The cablecar is almost to the top. Giorgi next to me is a stone carver, his cigarette is almost out, and so is our conversation.
There is a cablecar in Tbilisi. It climbs a mountain to a lake called Turtle Lake. In the summer it must be hopping he said, there's a tiki bar over there, and a floating stage and everything. I see a lake. We buy a drink, we walk, I wish we could float. There is magic in floating, like in drawing. No telling what will happen. An element of instability, uncertainty, as the pen touches the page.
Who is a Coyote Teacher and who is God?
I draw Mount Fuji and the Monastery of Saint Columba in the mist of the lake. They're floating too, like me.
The Soviets loved culture, but knew how to warp it tight, burn its ash, falsify. There is an 'Ethnographic Museum' on this hill. They've built a replica Svanetian tower on the hillock above Turtle Lake. How out of place it is here. Where are the mountains, where are the warriors, the enemies?
The tower is floating, unseen, unused, out of place.
We climb to see it. We climb a fence because they've locked the gate. No more ethnographers allowed, only floaters. The gate is locked and so is history.
The last cable car disappears down the mountain, but we don't notice. We stare at miniature buildings, hugging hillsides in clusters of fifteen story gray cubicles. I see the one I live in, I write in, I sleep, dream, bathe in. Is it alive this life? The cirrus clouds are abandoning me, and I need to hold on to the tower to keep from floating away. The tower is barely holding itself, it's so out-of-place. We're in danger of uprooting together.
Did you know you can see auras?
It's simple, just play games with the fuzzies, they're energy really, and eyes can be trained to see.
There are spirits there too? In the clouds, in the sky? I don't think so, they are in the heart. That is no place. No location. This floating is beautiful, as if space had never been created, nor time.
Is it true, our biography is already determined at birth. We know no time, Pre-cancer, cancer, post-cancer. There is no time, biography is already determined.
Absolute Sound
Absolute Love
Absolute Light
Thinned the veil, this has. A burden lifted, embrace, sunlace, encase, a foretaste, no haste. Frozen in experience, is movement possible, daring? Are there guides, is it overwhelming, or returning home? What is familiarity, what is love?
The cirrus clouds are gone. So is Giorgi. His cigarette will take six years to be dust where it has fallen.
The cable car is limp. Gravel.
The plane is still stalled.
A yellow minibus arrives. Out pile five tall women in sleek red outfits. They're ready to fly. But their plane is downed. They aren't interested in Turtle Lake, the Ethnographic Museum, the Tower, drawing, or floating. We ask them for a ride down and speak broken English. The road winds a difficult way. The same route the cablecar took, but so much more complicated. Do we choose which way we go? Our conditions necessitated this route. We do what we can with what we have, so they say.
The redsuits are gone, we're on a street again. The flower has wilted, the sun has set. The tower has uprooted and flown to the mountains, chasing the clouds.

 

Phone and Address

Dear Friends,
Sorry some time has passed. This year I am diving into the culture and language which is wonderful but makes writing about my experience as an observer a little more difficult than my visit last fall.

I wanted to let you know some information though:

My phone over here is 995-99-49-90-47

My address:
John Graham
c/o Rowena Cross Najaf
25 Atoneli Street
0105 Tbilisi Georgia

I have an apartment now in Sabertalo, which is a huge neighborhood about a fifteen minute bus ride from the center of town.
I live on the top and ninth floor of a concrete tower. I have hot water in the shower but not in the sinks, a working fireplace, an out of tune piano, a refrigerator! The amenities. Turn on/off gas for the stove, two beds, a coffee table and small fold out couch. With a hefty but fair monthly fee I have internet access. Electricity seems to be fairly consistent so far as well: we might lose an hour or so around dinnertime... which means I walk nine flights of stairs because the elevator won’t be working, however, water works without electricity thank god. Fake Greek columns snazzily hold up the low ceilings in an attempt to disguise the actual beams which flirt with my morning hair. Two bright windows look out on more ugly concrete buildings like mine, but it’s still an exotic view. It is all together a cozy little den with lots of books to read and music to sing.

I would rather live in the Old City Tbilisi though, where there are medieval churches and castles, cobblestone streets and grapevines, decorated gutters and balcony metalwork. In the basements are medieval style bakeries with one big round fire pit, on the walls of which sticky bread glows golden white before being extracted from charring with long tongs. On the first floors are vodka shops, another alternative. If I find a place down there, I’ll move, though at the moment I love my little spot.