notes on an affair
The pitiful laments, I am so devoted to.
Siri Hustvedt once wrote Transformations of the self are related to where you are, and identity is dependent on others.
An incident made me realize my devotion to elegy. I tend to think of my elegies as silent movies in black and white. However, once in a while and totally unexpected, I hear a voice and I see the color of a minor detail. I sit there in the dark and watch myself on the old screen which makes every act, every scene look like some excerpt from an old movie…an old silent movie in black and white with modern characters.
Every time, nevertheless, I come to the realization that I have had an affair with stability and that I have suffered from everything that is related to affairs.
carrying my room
I am reading The other Boleyn girl and I am truly fascinated by how manipulative some girls/women can be, they always seem to get what they want. I have never been that kind of a girl, but somehow, deep down inside, I wish to be sometimes. (I guess)(I always seem to end up with drama and runaways)
I have listened to Aslinda bir konu var by Yasemin Mori (a friend of mines sister) thousands of times the last couple of days. A part of me recognizes her words and I think they drive me to play the song on repeat. It is a sad song, but I listen to the happiness in it, if that makes sense to anyone.
I just wrote to a very good friend in Florida and told her about the small room I am carrying with me (might be hard to imagine, but I carry it everywhere I go). It is like I am floating in this beloved empty room as there is a lot happening around me; I watch every change, every move, I listen to every word, every laughter and I run (way too fast) to catch my dreams.
one hundred times
one hundred times I pray for
the monologues
to become dialogs
every written word I seek for,
in this me that has been pulled apart,
like some doll someone has created.
the forgotten sentences I long for,
in the beloved, blue storm
that makes me intoxicated.
one hundred times I pray for
the glorified, haunting dreams.
one hundred times I call for
the blood of my muted screams.
the inevitably dragging rage
is by no means coincidental.
I am waiting for my words to
come to me.
I praise the golden happiness,
while I pray one hundred times,
for the silver not to be forsaken.
In the dried colors beneath my nails
I paint my paradise,
in this golden world
where silver has been forsaken.
and I bite my lip
…while I once again,
pray one hundred times.
new york, new york…
I wake up pretty tired, but very happy, take a shower, get dressed and go to Murray’s for a bagel and a latte. One the guys shouts “A multi grain bagel with salmon and a double latte, right?” and smiles at me. I smile back, maybe too happy about the small affair, and say “yes, you got it!”. Five minutes later I sit right outside and have my breakfast while looking at the newyorkers passing by. I can feel the City, with a capital c, running through my veins like never before and it feels so good to be home, where everyone’s different but the same, like nowhere else in the world. I have been around, but there is no place like the City. I look in my bag for a cigarette and realize that I forgot my beloved capris on my desk, so I put my sunglasses on and go to the small shop to buy a new package. Even though he knows what kind of cigarettes I like, I get carded. Haha. He should know that I’m old enough, but I can’t resist smiling. It’s kind of funny. I remember the time I was afraid of getting carded and asked some older friends to buy me beer and cigarettes, just to save myself from the embarrassment.
Oh, I wanna go home.
