Just a girl
Do you know how I got my first job?
He asked me why he should hire me.
I smiled, very excited and full of self-esteem, looked him straight in the eyes and said:
“Because I always get what I want.”
I was calm and I truly believed in what I had just said to the man sitting in front of me. When my future boss noticed the fact that there was not a hint of a lie in my statement, he believed me. I think he was amused by my courage and supposedly my naïveté.
I was eighteen. And just a girl.
Silence
Silence, she whispered.
Yes, but not an awkward one, he said and smiled at her.
You are right, she said, happy to be his friend.
Some thoughts about starting to write again
I, as a young amateur writer, used to write about things like lying on the highway, butt naked, under pouring rain. I am not exactly sure why I dreamed about such an act, but it could have something to do with achieving some kind of a spiritual acclamation.
Some of my friends claim that I have a very personal way of blogging and yet I agree that I share a lot of personal thoughts and feelings, I keep the worst and best ones to myself. Once I manage to get my act together, I will write a book. However, I can’t help wondering how much of me my readers will be able to see in it. In order to become a professional writer, I need to get rid of the cowardice in me, that’s for sure.
Lately I have been pushing myself to write and in deep admiration for the world of my dreams, fantasies and incidents from my past, I expose the real me in a totally different way than I used to. It is all smoldering.
I need more inspiration. I need irrationality. I need frustration. Oh, make me bleed! Blood, in every emotional context, is my main inspiration.
Just some thoughts…
One of my friends offered to give me a ticket to New York a while ago. Can you believe that? I can’t. I said no, of course I did, but I will never forget the offer. He just got back from California and gave me two plastic figures the other day; a surfer dude and a skater dude. “They are the only surfer/skater dudes I’m ever gonna get” I burst out. Haha. You’re the best, M!
I think I have writer’s block, like I’ve had for a very long time. I used to have an urge to create something….anything!!! I felt like I was gonna explode unless I wrote in my journal, which consisted of both notes about my daily life and fictional stories. After almost fifteen years I quit keeping a journal for no other reason than the escape. Those of you who write might understand what I mean. Now I just feel exhausted. I don’t even feel like wearing all the jewelery I usually love to wear. When did that happen? And how is that even possible? To those of you who don’t know; shingirmingir is a Turkish word for the sound of jewelery and a nickname given me by one of my best friends.
I feel like dressing down. I feel like clearing my mind and filling it with things I used to care so much about; like international politics for instance.
I used to have dreams. I used to be brave.
When I look myself in the mirror all I can see is a stranger looking straight into my eyes, trying to tell me something I cannot hear.
“Put on a soundtrack CD and write everything that strikes your mind while listening to each of the songs. It helps when the songs differ from each other.” N said to me today. I’m gonna give it a try.
This transition phase I am going through feels kind of good and for the first time in maybe a year I feel like everything’s going to be fine.
I need a new notebook.
desaturated and floating. just like my dreams.
she was a skinny, blond middle aged retired stewardess sitting in the lap of her lover talking passionately about life and love. we could hear the sound of Italian opera from the penthouse apartment and see him whisper the translation in her ear. she had quit her job in Istanbul to become a full time writer, a poet, and to live by the sea in peaceful surroundings. he, who’s story we were not familiar with, was an opera loving middle aged man and the owner of all the olive trees in the area. they were drinking whiskey, we were drinking one Turkish beer after another.
my friend’s date had recently lost his father and had an overwhelming need for love and affection, which he was certainly not trying to keep as a secret.
we all had too much to drink and I don’t think I can recall the floating conversations, neither the count of all the cigarettes I smoked. when we left the morning after I could, not so surprisingly, hardly speak. the sun was rising, I felt dizzy and, in contrary to how my body reacted to the alcohol and the nicotine, very alive.
I remember the silence of the streets and the sound of the waves, the echo of our shoes and some dogs barking in the background. the shop owners were preparing a new day in the small town, sending us curious stolen looks as we stumbled past them.
every memory I have from Turkey is like a movie scene in slow motion; desaturated and floating. just like my dreams.
me, someone to save?
I’m gonna be your savior tonight, he said with his British accent and tucked me in his blazer.
I prefer the American accent. It makes me feel safe; I can’t explain why.
I ended up just leaving him at the party. And not because he had a British accent, don’t get me wrong.
me, an inspiration?
you inspire me. just wanted to say only that. for now…
my friend wrote to me.
you can’t even imagine how happy it made me!
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