Friday, September 30, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
hastane odasında
hastane odasında zamanı yelkovan değil, bir serum şişesinden tane tane düşen damlalar itekler. dünya, kötü kokulu bir hastane odası kadar kalmıştır –bazen bir hastanın gece boyu ağır ağır çıkıp inen göğsü kadar. iki dünya birbirine bir nefes alış-veriş kadar yakındır; iki nefes birbirine bir o kadar uzak. bir sonraki nefes bir türlü gelmek bilmez. beklemek insana hiç bu kadar zor gelmez.
çabuk çabuk nefes al ne olur, öldün sanıyorum...
120911
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
elephants and kettle
I do not know when I saw an elephant first in my life. Actually, I am not even sure if I have ever seen a real one. But my childhood memoirs are full of vivid pictures of elephants; huge, gray animals of faraway countries.
I remember quite clearly how I excitedly told my new stories to my audience waiting in full curiosity. Elephants and a kettle were the indispensable characters of my joyful stories. It is still a mystery for me how I was able to achieve to bring them together but I was accomplished enough to make my audience believe in my idea of elephants having a resemblance to a kettle.
I was young; I was young enough to hide myself in a fictional world escaping from this bothersome one when I was lost in it. Sometimes I myself would enter recklessly into the world of fiction and some other times I would just let the fiction flow into the real world. In a way I wove the reality with fiction, or vice versa.
Years later I realized that it is just about why and how literature comes into being. It has a simple formula: “mix a bit of reality with limitless imagination and offer it in an appetizing way”. Now the world no longer seems such displeasing and you have already been the chef-cook in the kitchen!
It seems to me that while we are strolling around the realms of western literature, unexpectedly coming across with a fictional Turkish character is also relevant to this formula; presenting the actuality in a more pleasing way by intermingling reality with imagination.Ottomans advancing through west and gaining power knock at the door of Europe in 14th century. By 16th century the situation is much more displeasing for Europeans as Turks own lands in Europe including Constantinople which is one of the capitals of western culture. For ages Turks are seen as the enemy of western culture and belief by westerners. In this sense it is not surprising to run into a Turk when we read works of western writers. They either portray a sneaky, treacherous Turk against trustable, faithful Westerner or they write about ‘fantastic’ victories won upon Turks. Instead of the works whose main character is a Turk, the ones which put him in a subplot attract my attention more.
Frankenstein, worldwide known novel of Mary Shelley, is one of the best examples of it. The book takes its share from romantic orientalism in 19th century. One of the interesting subplots of the novel is about a rich Turkish merchant who is arrested in Paris as a result of an unknown crime and a young French nobleman Felix who falls in love with his daughter when he tries to help him. While “the Turk” appears as if he approves the love between Felix and his daughter Safie, “in his heart he forms far other plans.” Even though he “loathes the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian”, he has to rely on Felix to be freed from prison. At the end while Felix is exiled from his native country because of treason, “the Turk” who gains his liberty goes back to Constantinople with his daughter whom he promises to unite to Felix.
Shelley, through the whole story, calls the merchant “the Turk” without any need to give him a name and depicts him as a ‘cunning’, ‘hypocritical’ and ‘stealthy’ man.
The author also talks about the rebellious soul of Safie who disapproves assumed passive role of woman in Turkish society and at the end elopes to her western lover Felix.
We see a similar Turkish image in William Shakespeare’s Othello,too. The writer who is famous for his historical plays hosts Turks in his subplots as Mary Shelley does. However, this time we are in 16th century; in other words golden age of Ottoman empire. Whereas the tragic relationship between Othello and Desdemona is taken as the main plot, at the background it makes references to Turks setting off to take Cyprus. The news of Turkish fleets steering for Rhodes comes to Othello but it is nothing than a ‘trap’. Turks whose real target is Cyprus want to deceive the British by advancing through Rhodes. So, the image of Turk is the same; ‘a cunning deceiver’. A similar example appears in another scene: when his lieutenants begin fighting with each other, Othello scolds them by calling attention to the supposed ‘barbaric’ sides of Turks, “Are we turned Turks, and to ourselves do that/ Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?”
At the end Turks who are on the way to Cyprus are destroyed in a storm and cannot achieve their goal. Yet, the interesting point is that Cyprus had already been taken by Turks about thirty years before Shakespeare wrote Othello and the play tells just a fantastic, wishful destruction of Turks.
It is also possible that Shakespeare, by making use of reality and imagination formula of literature and intermingling the conquest of Cyprus with the battle of Lepanto may want to create a semi-historical subplot. Because the European victory of Lepanto which is celebrated rapturously by westerners takes place in the same year (1571) with conquest of Cyprus.
On the basis of my association between my relation with elephants and the relation of western writers and Turks, the question waiting to be ansewred is “could the west be as naive as a child who tells the story of elephants which she has never seen in her life? Or was he more shrewd than her?”
As I get older, elephants have lost both their ‘fantasticality’ and their similarity with the kettle. Yet, it is an enigma what the image of Turks has turned into in the eyes of westerners, while it is still being questioned if we should be a member of Europian Union or not.
I remember quite clearly how I excitedly told my new stories to my audience waiting in full curiosity. Elephants and a kettle were the indispensable characters of my joyful stories. It is still a mystery for me how I was able to achieve to bring them together but I was accomplished enough to make my audience believe in my idea of elephants having a resemblance to a kettle.
I was young; I was young enough to hide myself in a fictional world escaping from this bothersome one when I was lost in it. Sometimes I myself would enter recklessly into the world of fiction and some other times I would just let the fiction flow into the real world. In a way I wove the reality with fiction, or vice versa.
***
Years later I realized that it is just about why and how literature comes into being. It has a simple formula: “mix a bit of reality with limitless imagination and offer it in an appetizing way”. Now the world no longer seems such displeasing and you have already been the chef-cook in the kitchen!
***
It seems to me that while we are strolling around the realms of western literature, unexpectedly coming across with a fictional Turkish character is also relevant to this formula; presenting the actuality in a more pleasing way by intermingling reality with imagination.Ottomans advancing through west and gaining power knock at the door of Europe in 14th century. By 16th century the situation is much more displeasing for Europeans as Turks own lands in Europe including Constantinople which is one of the capitals of western culture. For ages Turks are seen as the enemy of western culture and belief by westerners. In this sense it is not surprising to run into a Turk when we read works of western writers. They either portray a sneaky, treacherous Turk against trustable, faithful Westerner or they write about ‘fantastic’ victories won upon Turks. Instead of the works whose main character is a Turk, the ones which put him in a subplot attract my attention more.
Frankenstein, worldwide known novel of Mary Shelley, is one of the best examples of it. The book takes its share from romantic orientalism in 19th century. One of the interesting subplots of the novel is about a rich Turkish merchant who is arrested in Paris as a result of an unknown crime and a young French nobleman Felix who falls in love with his daughter when he tries to help him. While “the Turk” appears as if he approves the love between Felix and his daughter Safie, “in his heart he forms far other plans.” Even though he “loathes the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian”, he has to rely on Felix to be freed from prison. At the end while Felix is exiled from his native country because of treason, “the Turk” who gains his liberty goes back to Constantinople with his daughter whom he promises to unite to Felix.
Shelley, through the whole story, calls the merchant “the Turk” without any need to give him a name and depicts him as a ‘cunning’, ‘hypocritical’ and ‘stealthy’ man.
The author also talks about the rebellious soul of Safie who disapproves assumed passive role of woman in Turkish society and at the end elopes to her western lover Felix.
We see a similar Turkish image in William Shakespeare’s Othello,too. The writer who is famous for his historical plays hosts Turks in his subplots as Mary Shelley does. However, this time we are in 16th century; in other words golden age of Ottoman empire. Whereas the tragic relationship between Othello and Desdemona is taken as the main plot, at the background it makes references to Turks setting off to take Cyprus. The news of Turkish fleets steering for Rhodes comes to Othello but it is nothing than a ‘trap’. Turks whose real target is Cyprus want to deceive the British by advancing through Rhodes. So, the image of Turk is the same; ‘a cunning deceiver’. A similar example appears in another scene: when his lieutenants begin fighting with each other, Othello scolds them by calling attention to the supposed ‘barbaric’ sides of Turks, “Are we turned Turks, and to ourselves do that/ Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites?”
At the end Turks who are on the way to Cyprus are destroyed in a storm and cannot achieve their goal. Yet, the interesting point is that Cyprus had already been taken by Turks about thirty years before Shakespeare wrote Othello and the play tells just a fantastic, wishful destruction of Turks.
It is also possible that Shakespeare, by making use of reality and imagination formula of literature and intermingling the conquest of Cyprus with the battle of Lepanto may want to create a semi-historical subplot. Because the European victory of Lepanto which is celebrated rapturously by westerners takes place in the same year (1571) with conquest of Cyprus.
***
On the basis of my association between my relation with elephants and the relation of western writers and Turks, the question waiting to be ansewred is “could the west be as naive as a child who tells the story of elephants which she has never seen in her life? Or was he more shrewd than her?”
As I get older, elephants have lost both their ‘fantasticality’ and their similarity with the kettle. Yet, it is an enigma what the image of Turks has turned into in the eyes of westerners, while it is still being questioned if we should be a member of Europian Union or not.
050508
Saturday, May 1, 2010
grandma
a two years old child's innocence
sits on your face
accordion lassitude of decades
singing touching songs of your time
when you talk to an artist
in an old movie
sits on your face
accordion lassitude of decades
singing touching songs of your time
when you talk to an artist
in an old movie
270310
Saturday, January 23, 2010
(un)originality
Friday, December 18, 2009
the crippled children of my brain
these scriptures of me are like a disease that travels in the veins of my body
- especially of my brain.
I want to get rid of it, so just write it out.
then, the weary relaxation of post-disease times seizes my body.
these scriptures of me are the crippled children of my brain. they look strange to me, when I read them again –days after
I feel the strong sense of that they have never belonged to me.
I write in a frenzy saving my brain and heart from a disturbing feeling. yet, after it leaves my body and my pencil,
- especially of my brain.
I want to get rid of it, so just write it out.
then, the weary relaxation of post-disease times seizes my body.
these scriptures of me are the crippled children of my brain. they look strange to me, when I read them again –days after
I feel the strong sense of that they have never belonged to me.
I write in a frenzy saving my brain and heart from a disturbing feeling. yet, after it leaves my body and my pencil,
it immediately turns into a stranger.
just like this one!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
insan olmak üzerine
Cam kırıklarını bile isteye avuçlayıp kesiklerimizden şikayetçi olamayız. Düğüne gider gibi gideriz bizi acıtacak ne varsa üstüne, sevdiğimizi karşılar gibi kucaklarız canımızı yakacak her ne varsa. Elimiz, bedenimiz, yüreğimiz kan revan içinde; hepsinin rengi kırmızı. Sonra yaralar iyileşir; pek kızılan “acımasız” zaman bir bakarız merhemimiz olmuş. Merhemin merhametle bir ilişkisi olmalı ve merhametin zamanla. Kesiklerimizi iyileştirmenin yolunu öğrenen biz, daha bir bilgeyizdir daha bir güçlü. Bilmediğimiz, her şeye rağmen başka cam kırıklarını tekrar umarsızca avuçlayacak kadar “insan” olduğumuzdur.
Bu defa bize en fazla ızdırap verenin yaralarımız değil “hafıza”mız olduğunu öğreniriz. Dev silgilerimiz olsun isteriz; hatırlamak istemediğimiz ne varsa silebilmek için –bu saf ümitten midir bilmem ben hep kurşun kalem kullanırım. Herşeyi kontrolü altına almak isteyen bu “şuursuz şuur” benim canımı sıkıyor; kaç zamandır dilimizi “el-muktedir” le ıslatmayı unuttuk? Oysa belki de tüm sayfayı yeniden yazabilmek üzere silip boşaltamadığımız için insanız ya da bu da “insan olmak”lığın bir parçası.
Bir şarkı vardı benim çok sevdiğim, “herkes kendine sürgün biraz” diyordu. Kendimize rağmen bir şansımız var yani; tamamen kendi tekilliğimize hapsolmuş sayılmayız. Birbirimize merdiven dayayabiliriz günün birinde. Birbirine çarpan, ara sıra teğet geçen özneleriz hepimiz. Yalnızlık, kendi etrafımıza kendi duvarımızı örmek gibi; insan denen mahlukatın kendi üretimi biraz. Nefes aldığımız müddetçe yalnız değiliz; doğarken yalnız değiliz ve yaşarken de olmayabiliriz. Ölürken yalnız ölürüz, “birlikte ölmek” kati imkansızlığın anlam kazandığı yegane kelime çifti belki de. Çünkü herkes kendi ölümüne ölür. Sonrası?
Mana aleminde hangimiz yalnızız? Doğarken de, yaşarken de ve hatta ölürken de. Bunun da merhametle bir ilgisi olmalı ve insan olmakla.
Ve elbet bizim “samed” olamamaklığımızla.
Bu defa bize en fazla ızdırap verenin yaralarımız değil “hafıza”mız olduğunu öğreniriz. Dev silgilerimiz olsun isteriz; hatırlamak istemediğimiz ne varsa silebilmek için –bu saf ümitten midir bilmem ben hep kurşun kalem kullanırım. Herşeyi kontrolü altına almak isteyen bu “şuursuz şuur” benim canımı sıkıyor; kaç zamandır dilimizi “el-muktedir” le ıslatmayı unuttuk? Oysa belki de tüm sayfayı yeniden yazabilmek üzere silip boşaltamadığımız için insanız ya da bu da “insan olmak”lığın bir parçası.
***
Bir şarkı vardı benim çok sevdiğim, “herkes kendine sürgün biraz” diyordu. Kendimize rağmen bir şansımız var yani; tamamen kendi tekilliğimize hapsolmuş sayılmayız. Birbirimize merdiven dayayabiliriz günün birinde. Birbirine çarpan, ara sıra teğet geçen özneleriz hepimiz. Yalnızlık, kendi etrafımıza kendi duvarımızı örmek gibi; insan denen mahlukatın kendi üretimi biraz. Nefes aldığımız müddetçe yalnız değiliz; doğarken yalnız değiliz ve yaşarken de olmayabiliriz. Ölürken yalnız ölürüz, “birlikte ölmek” kati imkansızlığın anlam kazandığı yegane kelime çifti belki de. Çünkü herkes kendi ölümüne ölür. Sonrası?
Mana aleminde hangimiz yalnızız? Doğarken de, yaşarken de ve hatta ölürken de. Bunun da merhametle bir ilgisi olmalı ve insan olmakla.
Ve elbet bizim “samed” olamamaklığımızla.
240209
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Quid rides? De te fabula narratur *
Pastel boya kokusunda sevdiğim bir şey var; pastel boya kokusunda çocukluğum saklı. Hayatı altı renkli bir kutu pastel boyayla renklendirmeye muktedir çocukluğum. Artık bu konuda o kadar maharetli değilim. Kafam, bedenimin taşıyamayacağı kadar ağırlaştı. Öğrendiğim her yeni şeyle birlikte biraz daha büyüyen içimdeki hüzün balonu ne zaman patlayacak merak ediyorum. Bu hüznü umursamadan ama onun hep farkında olarak ben daha ne kadar yaşayabilirim? Daha kaç zaman böylesine çok gülümseyebilir ve gülümsetebilirim? Hani o şairin dediği gibi “now I am a wiser yet a sadder man”.
Masaldaki çocuk hiç bir zaman daha bilge olduğundan “kral çıplak” demedi. Aksine çocuğa kral çıplak dedirten çocuğun “cahil cesareti”ydi; bunu da bize hiç kimse söylemedi. Biz artık krala çıplak diyemeyecek kadar büyüdük ve “kral” olduk. Öyle büyüdük ki kendi çıplaklığımızın farkına vardık. Pastel boya kutusundaki altı renk boyayı çıplaklığımızı saklamak için tükettik de hayat için elimizde bir şey kalmadı sanki. Belki de bundandır bunca hüzün... Biz büyüdük. Cesaretimiz cahilliğimizle eş zamanlı terkedip gitti bizi. Çıplaktık ve üstelik korkaktık! Kendi “kral”lığımızı umursamaksızın başka krallara çıplak demenin iç kaldıracak derecede mide bulandırıcı yarışına girdik. Yüzsüzleştik ya da birden fazla yüzler edindik –ikiden de fazla. Başkalarına “çıplaksın” diyebilmenin ahmakça gururunu yaşamayı seçtik.
Ben masalları sevmiyorum. Büyüdüğümden filan değil, masallar inandırıcılığını yitirdiğinden de değil. Zira eskiden de bilirdim masalın mavalla bir ilgisi olduğunu. Kendi inandırıcılığımızı yitirdiğimizden belki. Yine de masallar yazayım istiyorum. İçinde şapşal ve çıplak krallara “çıplaksın” diyebilen kahramanlarım olsun istiyorum. “Kral çıplak” desinler “kral çıplak; tıpkı benim gibi ve hepimiz gibi”.
*“Ne gülüyorsun anlattığım senin hikayen” (Horatius,Hiciv I)
240209
...
Masaldaki çocuk hiç bir zaman daha bilge olduğundan “kral çıplak” demedi. Aksine çocuğa kral çıplak dedirten çocuğun “cahil cesareti”ydi; bunu da bize hiç kimse söylemedi. Biz artık krala çıplak diyemeyecek kadar büyüdük ve “kral” olduk. Öyle büyüdük ki kendi çıplaklığımızın farkına vardık. Pastel boya kutusundaki altı renk boyayı çıplaklığımızı saklamak için tükettik de hayat için elimizde bir şey kalmadı sanki. Belki de bundandır bunca hüzün... Biz büyüdük. Cesaretimiz cahilliğimizle eş zamanlı terkedip gitti bizi. Çıplaktık ve üstelik korkaktık! Kendi “kral”lığımızı umursamaksızın başka krallara çıplak demenin iç kaldıracak derecede mide bulandırıcı yarışına girdik. Yüzsüzleştik ya da birden fazla yüzler edindik –ikiden de fazla. Başkalarına “çıplaksın” diyebilmenin ahmakça gururunu yaşamayı seçtik.
...
Ben masalları sevmiyorum. Büyüdüğümden filan değil, masallar inandırıcılığını yitirdiğinden de değil. Zira eskiden de bilirdim masalın mavalla bir ilgisi olduğunu. Kendi inandırıcılığımızı yitirdiğimizden belki. Yine de masallar yazayım istiyorum. İçinde şapşal ve çıplak krallara “çıplaksın” diyebilen kahramanlarım olsun istiyorum. “Kral çıplak” desinler “kral çıplak; tıpkı benim gibi ve hepimiz gibi”.
*“Ne gülüyorsun anlattığım senin hikayen” (Horatius,Hiciv I)
240209
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