Gokcen Ergene

Trailer for Terrible Road.
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Orhan Veli’s poems are impossible to translate to English as he wrote in casual street Turkish almost to the point they shouldn’t be written down. So here’s another attempt by me hoping it gains an arm in English where it loses a leg in the translation.

Old Age

You stand pale in front of me; the glass
And the carafe.
This familiar stance is what I like;
Your hand in mine.

Let’s drink! Since our life’s been jolly
Without seperation
Neither the glass broken
Nor the carafe empty.

One of us might not be here one day
To drink
Or to refill.

İhtiyarlık

Benim, bardağın , sürahinin ,
Önümüzdesin ; rengin uçmuş,
Bu ; eski , sevdiğim bir duruş
Elin , içinde benimkinin.

İçelim! Madem ömrümüz hoş
Geçmiş , tatmamışız ayrılık ;
Madem ne bayrağımız kırık,
Madem ne sürahimiz boş.

Bir gün ikimizden birimiz
İçmek veya doldurmak için
Burada olmayabiliriz.

- Orhan Veli

Note: In line 7, he plays with the words “bardak” and “bayrak” in Turkish; meaning glass and flag. He actually says “flag” but I translated it as “glass”. It’s up to you to decide if he was serious or just playing. ‘Bardağımız’ and ‘bayrağımız’ sound almost exactly the same when spoken. Also note that his usage of ‘flag’ very possibly implies the flag of the two of them and not the national flag. Turkish is a very metaphorical agglutinative language; spoken Turkish mostly consists of phrases, sayings, metaphors and rhyme in contrast to English which is quite straightforward and clear. For instance, what I translated as ‘pale’ is literally ‘your color has flown away”. And the rhyme.. forget about it!

I can’t remember your name. We must’ve been around 4 or 5 as my brother wasn’t born yet. You lived across the hall and our mothers would meet for tea daily, sometimes even twice, chatting about what Turkish mothers used to chat about in the early 80s; should there be another coup? Does it matter? Do their jeans still fit after all those years? How does the Greek moussaka differ from the Turkish? How much sugar for the baklava?

I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t like days when we came over and we had to play in your room while they had their little tea party. Your room was full of girl stuff and light colors. You’d tell me the names of your dolls. (What were you thinking?) I also remember you had a bunkbed which confuses me to this day; you didn’t have any siblings. But I learned something incredibly important and precious then; I would make such a fuss and constantly bother our moms, yell and scream about how I didn’t want to play with your toys and that your room was boring. Once I created enough of a commotion, they’d eventually take you and me to our apartment so they could continue their festivity in peace at yours. So on such lucky days, my obnoxious behavior would lead me to get you alone, at my place!

Once we got to our place, I’d learn my second precious lesson; girls do NOT care about cars. My impressive line of Matchbox BMWs and Mercedes could not even make you pretend to care, even when I’d line them up on dad’s expensive record player and make them turn, you didn’t care, you just didn’t, little stupid cars are turning on a record player; how great!

Then came the third precious lesson and it was for both of us: Once I’d run out of ideas on how to make you remotely interested in my life and what I liked doing, perhaps combined with your prediction that I didn’t care if your favorite doll was Ayşe, Barbie or Leyla, a little light appeared to both of us.

Dear, I can’t ever forget that moment; the door. Look at the door: pairs of shoes, many pairs, my mother’s, my father’s, grown up shoes! Within seconds, you and I rushed to the door and before I could even have a chance to pick ones I like, you had my mother’s heels on and I was standing in my father’s dress shoes. It felt good! So good, so fair that we didn’t even question what was next. This was it; we had found it, a little door to reality, an understanding of how we can actually spend time together. So simple; we had to play the same game. Nothing would ever be that simple again. You looked so good in heels.

After that moment and with our grown up shoes on, everything was easy, the rest came by itself. We moved to the living room, sat by the window, your legs crossed like a lady and mine crossed like a man; ankle to knee. “Tell me dear, how was your day at work?” “Oh it was fine, you know how it is these days. How are the children? Did they do their homework?” I know it sounds funny but I can’t laugh right now. That revelation of reality, pure, straightforward authenticity stops my ability to laugh at it. Eventhough the shoes were not ours, eventhough our children were fake, our marriage secret and uncertified, one never finds such honesty in life like we did that day. I was a dentist of course, just like dad and we had one son and one daughter but I remember discussing it; I was set on one son, you added the daughter. “Bi de kızımız olsun.”

Hours went by that window, watching the world go by and conversing so lightly, so necessarily easy. I remember you going to the kitchen and getting two coffee cups, asking if I would take it with sugar tonight. You brought our coffee and the conversation went on and on as we sipped the imaginary coffee. I must admit you made great coffee, dear. I can’t even begin to count how many times we did this; different shoes, different stories from the dentist’s office, I think you even cooked me an imaginary moussaka once. The Greek and the Turkish recipe made no difference to us and your baklava tasted incredible. We never had to invent another game and each time was as good as the first, that was love.

Then time past and my brother was born; it ruined everything. We had to move to a bigger apartment, just down the same street but I never saw you again. I thought I fell in love once more in 3rd grade; she was a redhead and would wink at me from across the classroom; I felt very special and forgot about you. Few months later, I caught her winking at another boy. I didn’t care that much really. After all, it was just a flirt; nothing real. I forgot about her quickly. I am 31 now and the rest of my story is irrelevant so I won’t bother you with it.

Well dear, I just wanted to tell you I haven’t forgotten our marriage despite I can’t remember your name. I hope I never do remember your name and you don’t read this and we never find each other. You probably didn’t tell your husband you were married before. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.

My skull. Stocks fall. Where did I leave it? The butcher shop. 27 steps from the stoop where I found her scarf. Two pairs of shoes, one jacket black, one navy blue sweater. One handwritten letter received; pertaining to a ghost story from nine years ago; still breathing. Maker’s Mark. Barbie. Slow but persistent. Time well spent without pity. 4th kiss on the way up the block; exchanging securities for momentary premise. Cultivated stretches of compensation. Reversal of one agreement; a bargain but a friend lost. A tangible negotiation with her blonde hair; postponed for now. New laces. Rilke. Dig Lazarus. Bob Dylan. Understanding a little more. Champagne. 2 new dice. One evening lost in a room so small. Hugged Japanese person. No vote. Reorganization. An attempt at letting somebody love me; quick apology, quick retrieval. A package from mother with my baby towel and panther bedsheets. Cigarettes as usual, coffee under control, whiskey my love and chocolates for you.

Ending this autumn with Musil’s “Progress would be wonderful - if only it would stop.” and opening the door to winter with Walser; “I shall never let myself be rescued nor shall I ever rescue anybody.”

How long do I have to be quiet? I can go for a long time, you know. Is this what you wanted? What was it you wanted? Is this is not what you wanted and is it too late?

In 2008, in the spring, you purchased a pack of Winston Lights, one pack of tampons, pregnancy test, 3 photographs, stole $200, my socks, a videotape of indecent behavior and you rushed out the door. I should immediately confess that the videotape you took was only a copy. You punched me in the chest, threw the bottle of Jim Beam on the kitchen floor, that’s allright, I don’t mind cleaning. Really, I don’t. In regards to the stuff you hid in my house, I know where they are and no I haven’t looked and I am not going to read any of it; I am not a historian. The best words known to man are words lost and I’d like it to stay that way. What you don’t say is lost forever. You are not a treasure chest, not one bit.

I liked your hair, smile and the way you fell off your chair, that was cute; very cute, eventhough you did it on purpose and pretended it was an accident; that made it even cuter. Oh and the nights you’d start babbling about.. well, nobody knows what you were talking about, you threw those words in the wind hoping one of them would crash into mine so the lights of that little explosion would punch one of us in the face and we’d see some sort of light, spark, madness, innovation that could take us elsewhere. Ah, that elsewhere; half-sex, half-trust, half-truth and oh my, half-beginning which would eventually lead us to a half-end. That’s what you wanted, a half-end, not a real end; penis in, baby out.

To this day, I know you think we’re still at half. Half the battle, half the loss, half the song, half of your letters read, half of them kept secret for the right time. Half of the gifts to be returned to sender; half a film. Silly.

It’s still 2008, fall. I’ve come to say a half goodbye as the half goodbye should cover a half hello. It’s over, it isn’t going any further. The ocean behind you is now all yours to swim in. In full. I am going to mail you the bikini you left here and the master videotape. I don’t need your address, I know where you are.

Croatia, after decades of communism is probably the one republic of former Yugoslavia that is adjusting to capitalism slightly better than the others. The whole country is pretty much all renovated after the “last” “Balkan” war. I love coming here and everytime, I understand communism more and more. Even it’s gone, even if it’s not here. But its definition stays and understanding it seems easier at a country that left it behind rather than a country living in it.

Here’s how, allow me:

Tonight I went to eat delicious fish on the Adriatic coast. The Croats have amazing culinary skills when it comes to fish as the country’s coast is made up of 1,000, yes, one thousand small and big islands and islets. As I was savouring my fried red mullets (I had more than one), a spanish couple sat at the table next to me. The waiter came by and asked them what they’d like to drink. The couple ordered 2 cokes, diet. Simple choice.

A few minutes later, the waiter arrived with their cokes and 2 glasses; only one of the glasses had ice in it. Somehow the gentleman got the glass with the ice, about 4 cubes of it. The lady politely asked she’d like ice as well. This is where the waiter got extremely confused. Let me note that the waiter did not offer the ice to the gentleman because he is sexist, he is not. It just happened that way; there is no explanation as to why only one of the glasses had ice in it. Just luck. The waiter’s confusion intensified when the gentleman pointed to the ice in his glass and said “more”. He just didn’t get it; it didn’t get through. At this point, the lady pointed to her glass and then pointed to the ice in her husband’s glass. No. Nothing. The lady said, for the 3rd time, she’d like some ice as well. Nope. Nada. No communicacion!

The confused waiter finally understood; he took the gentleman’s glass and emptied the ice into the lady’s glass. They all laughed. Regardless, the problem wasn’t solved. Now, the gentleman had no ice. To resolve the problem, the waiter took the lady’s glass and tried to distribute the ice amongst them. One ice cube fell into the gentleman’s glass. Now, he had one ice cube and the lady had three. Still not working out. Once more they laughed. Finally seeing that his actions weren’t satisfying the Spanish couple, the waiter, using a fork and a knife, took one more ice cube out of the lady’s glass and put it into the husband’s. Finally! Both had 2 cubes of ice though most of it had melted in the heat of the Mediterranean night. Not once did the waiter thought to go get more ice.

This is communism at its best: You start with a bunch of ice. While trying to distribute and share the ice, most of it melts away and at the end no one has any ice. In the time it takes to distribute the ice, one could’ve had a delicious cold coke watching the waves of the Adriatic wash Croatia’s now capitalist shores.

La Concha is big. It’s a big big hotel. I am one of the 4 guests staying at La Concha in San Juan, Puerto Rico. With all the hurricane warnings and the incredible rain, only a few of us call this a vacation. Well, I am not here for a vacation. I am not here for any specific reason, to be honest. I am here because it’s 2008, I am 31, the world is still turning, time doesn’t end when you don’t believe it, I love coffee, I am reading a book on qualities, Bushmills is great whiskey, I do not wear checkered shirts, my father was a dentist and a clarinet player, I am going to make a feature film next summer, I wear size 42 shoes, people say I have nice hands.

None of these are reasons to be in San Juan, I know. But maybe there is a gap somewhere between those facts that requires me to be in Puerto Rico today and I am here because I trust that space between actualities, the space that makes room for the black hole between one’s justifications; the slot, the vent, the crack, perforation. Leonard Cohen said there’s a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. So just because I or you can’t pinpoint it, it doesn’t mean the reason doesn’t exist. For the confused reader, let’s note that I am not talking about fate. Fate is a manmade concept. I try not to believe in manmade notions.

As a result of the space between, well let’s say, my father being a clarinet player and Bushmills is great whiskey, I am in San Juan. What? How? This is why: One lives a narrative no matter what. The narrative has two authors; one’s self and the world. The world is always willing, it’s the good writer, so disciplined, working 24/7, helping build your narrative relentlessly, it makes nature, it makes people, it makes places, it makes food, it makes love, it makes hate, it makes cars. It makes the props. You are the lazy collaborator. You only work on your narrative when you want to, you don’t fill in your part as much as you should. You owe the world.

So I came to San Juan because it’s my responsibility, because I owe the world and I have to pay my debt before I get out of here and my co-written fragmented narrative comes to an end. As a result, I am in San Juan on business. My responsibility to my narrative and the world at large is much bigger and inflexible than the rationale for vacation. I am not here to rest and swim in the pool, well, it’s also raining like crazy. My business trip so far has been good, I feel that I am paying back what I owe to the script of my life each time the bartender wonders what the hell I am doing here for the other 3 people staying at the hotel at least seem to take pictures. Now, I am going to get up from this chair, walk over to the bartender and explain my reasons, why the business of the world is important and why I had to come to San Juan to pay a debt and how it’s vital one honors his contracts with the world; the debt to the Act 2 of my life so the paragraph can now read:

“His father was a clarinet player. He went to San Juan in 2008. Bushmills is great whiskey.”

One sentence at a time.

At 10, chocolate and a bike
At 20, sex
At 30, sex and money
At 40, money and sex
At 50, money and validation
At 60, love
At 70, grandchildren
At 80, nothing.

I like people who have lost all sense of what they wanted in the first place, forgot their reasons. I really do, I don’t know why. I don’t think trees question why they are trees.

I dream of people who can leave themselves behind, rise above the garbage of mankind and its self-referential notion of good and bad. Only then, can we really be together, in the same space, truly and enjoy how irrelevant even that is. This is difficult as believing in progress doesn’t necessarily mean believing any progress has yet been made. Do I think this is possible? Probably not, not in my lifetime. So what do I do? Every inch one moves away from morality is where they meet me. This meeting, given these current circumstances is satisfactory. Thus, I am content.

The foremost and first rule of all human endeavors has to be disbelief, pure and honest disbelief. Only then, we have a tiny chance at progress. All feelings, all notions, all thought should first be approached with utter disbelief and skepticism. All other formulas have proven to be lethal and rendered disgusting results. Absolute distrust in science, business, art, religion and feelings is necessary for any real insight into ourselves and the world surrounding us. This begins with throwing out the word ‘truth’. As we can all see, we are far from that vital act and until we get there, we are merely circling the length of one foot; our own.

1- Two of my short films Hum + Mirrorless screening @ Candid Arts Trust, London - August 12, 8pm

2 - Mirrorless also @ Sunnyside Shorts Film Festival in Queens, NY. September 6. 8pm

I apologize for another quote post but I am completely engulfed by Robert Musil these days. Please, help yourself:

“No one who speaks of the greatest and most important thing in the world means anything that really exists. What peculiar quality of the world would it be equivalent to? It all amounts to one thing being greater or more important, or more beautiful and sadder, than another; in other words, the existence of a hierarchy of values and the comparative mode, which surely implies an end point and a superlative? But if you point this out to someone who happens at that very moment to be speaking of the greatest and most important thing in the world, that person will suspect that she is dealing with an individual devoid of feelings and ideals.” - R. Musil

It feels great to see it put to words so well after being in this situation most of my life, thank you Robert. You with me?

Tonight, I’d like to pass along a few quotes from Robert Musil’s essay-novel The Man Without Qualities. I recommend it highly to those who have in one way or another entered a skeptical plateau of life at any point. Also, it’s an incredible resource for those who want to understand Europe and Europeans; for indulging in the social and ideological history of early 20th century Europe is necessary to even begin to grasp its reality today. (Yes, it’s 3 fat volumes, good luck!)

“The man going quietly about his business all day long expends far more muscular energy than an athlete who lifts a huge weight once a day. This has been proved physiologically, and so the social sum total of everybody’s little everyday efforts, especially when added together, doubtless releases far more energy into the world than do rare heroic feats. This total even makes the single heroic feat look positively minuscule, like a grain of sand on a mountaintop with a megalomaniacal sense of its own importance.”

“Happiness depends very little on what we want, but only on achieving whatever it is.”

“Modern man is born in a hospital and dies in a hospital, so he should make his home like a clinic.”

“The difference between a healthy person and one who is mentally ill is the fact that the healthy one has all the mental illnesses, and the mentally ill person has only one.”

“The man with an ordinary sense of reality is like a fish that nibbles at the hook but is unaware of the line, while the man with that sense of reality which can also be called a sense of possibility trawls a line through the water and has no idea whether there’s any bait on it.”

Good night + morning.

Dear Anna,

Look at me. I am writing this because it is absolutely impossible to tell you any of it. Not because it is wrong, not because wolves will fetch your babies if I do. Only because I can’t say it in person, not face to face, not with gestures, not over the phone, not to you, not like that. Why? Because you don’t deserve it. This song, Anna, is not really a song but let’s pretend it’s a song so I can sing it easier. And my singing voice, Anna, is not the prettiest . You call, you write, you ask why. Actually, you don’t even ask why. I imagine you ask why or shall we say, why not? In words, you ask about the weather, the whereabouts; the here and there of life. In fact, strangers always talk about the weather. We’re not strangers? We are. So let me answer questions you haven’t asked in person for the same reasons I can’t answer them in person.

Let’s face it; at your age, it’s impossible for you to understand what I am singing about; but let’s be fair too; at my age, I’ve forgotten the notes you sing. Age doesn’t make any of us better or better looking. It doesn’t make us worse either. Time is useless. Time’s job is the job of a blind librarian; cataloging chaos. But how does one catalog chaos?

It seems that my doors and windows to you are shut. These shut doors and windows don’t reflect much sunlight. You sit and wonder why. Are you not enough? What is wrong with you? Nothing is wrong with you, Anna. You are beautiful, your golden hair, be it real or be it painted reflects more sunlight than the cigarette smoke which drifts away from my beard as I yell at the gatekeeper “Let the dogs in!”

I know I started something I can’t finish. Blame me. I am good at taking it. Only don’t blame yourself. Ever. I dream that you imagine a plateau which people call the world. And in that world, is a village, where you and I can watch horses play in black sand and whiskey flows in the rivers. But I am not there, Anna. Not because of you, not because I don’t trust your horses, not because your horses are toothless.

I just can’t ride horses whose shoes I haven’t made myself. Let’s be friends?

There hasn’t been a more sexist TV show/film than Sex and The City in the last decade. This deeply upsets me. No, it is not sexist towards men, it’s sexist towards women. And believe me, I am all for admitting and cherishing the difference between men and women. I do think we have essential differences that make us behave, react, think in absolutely distinct ways. Our interest in each other is mostly caused by this variation between the two sexes. Consciously or unconsciously, we are fascinated by each other because we are different; to the point that it becomes a curiosity which must be researched and studied. This research and study translates itself into flirting, love and sex. This is wonderful. I believe the two studying each other (or whatever you want to call it) is actually progressive, beautiful and even. The odds are fair.

Sex and The City preaches the opposite. It says women are beings who spend all their time drinking cocktails, talking about men, buying shoes and that’s pretty much it. It dumbs down the female to a few almost material equations. The problem gets worse; on top of the picture it paints, it also says that is cool. It lies to the female and says ‘if you are like this, it’s ok and if you are not like this, you should be; go out and buy some pink heels and everything will be fine, these are your essentials’. In other words, it advocates and confirms that this material, dumb and pseudo-sexual way is the female way.

I think you get what I am saying.

There is, of course, a third and most important layer to the problem. Many women, including some of my very close friends watch the show. Some actually like it, some like it ironically; pretending they only watch it for fun which is all good until it is not good. Ironic appreciation is worse than actual appreciation, it fuels the show’s idea further and enlarges its platform for ‘proving’ itself right. These women who are otherwise intelligent, feminist and progressive get themselves caught in the show’s web. It becomes a secret fetish but unfortunately it is not as good as chocolate.
I am personally shocked to find so many intelligent females to be engulfed by this nonsense; people who are otherwise ready at all times to fight for women’s rights, equality and a fair environment where we can continue the exciting exploration between the two sexes that I mentioned above.

Come on, ladies. Your interest in Sex and The City is making us men look smarter, and believe me; we are not.

I never thought travel essays made any sense as they are written by the person traveling almost for the same person. I did this, I did that and then the girl in the traditional outfit brought me a rose with my tea, etc, etc. I only have a few notes about Amsterdam, the rest remains for you to find out. And since I have already left and am in Zagreb now, I will still write it in the present tense, that should make it more genuine.

I am staying at a former jail. My room feels like I should be guilty and I feel guilty. In fact, I am guilty. Thank you for this opportunity to confess, retreat and rehabilitate. Shared institutional bathrooms remind me of my boarding school days and that’s good. I liked boarding school. I liked it a lot. I spent 7 years there. Most of western Europe has merged into the same notion of the western European cosmopolis and no that’s not because of the EU. It has become hard to distinguish between Amsterdam, Paris, Barcelona and so on; not in the way they or their people are or look, just in the daily routine of things; the coffee, the trains, the so-called global intellectualism which bores me to death. I miss when you could sit at a cafe in Barcelona and not feel like you are sitting at a cafe in Paris and vice versa. I guess this sort of strict difference is brought upon by war. War always brings us back to what we believe we rightfully own or have invented. If there was a war between the Dutch and the French, the French cafe cup might very well disappear from the Amsterdam cafes and get replaced by the Dutch goblet in a matter of days?

Two more little notes and I will leave you alone:

a) The main difference between America and the rest of the world is renting vs. owning one’s life. In Europe and the Middle East, for instance, one rents his life from the history and the tradition that owns it. In America, one buys, makes and owns one’s life. More on this later..

b) I have discovered why prostitution is legal and over-marketed in the Netherlands; the local girls do not wear skirts. They really don’t. Don’t ask me why.

Bye.

I can’t seem to find that letter. I can’t even remember if I handwrote or typed it. Maybe I sent it? Have I? I have purchased 2 small things that will stay with me forever. I paid $20 for a moment. A moment alone. New curtains. I rolled the dice and got 4 and 6; not bad for a thursday night. I received a letter. I rolled it up and blew smoke rings through it. I cut my fingernails. I will see my mother in 13 days. I will see Nick Cave in 10. I will buy useless stupid souvenirs for my friends and carry them on the plane. I have made an inquiry at the Brooklyn Chamber of Commerce. I will spend a night at a former jail building in 11 days. I will see Vienna for the first time and visit Nietzsche’s room where he spent months trying to decide if he was crazy. I bought two bottles of Mexican coke, 10 oz. of Amsterdam Shag but it’s made in Denmark.

I polished my boots, my shirt is white, my beard trimmed, I am 31, I’ve got 52 dollars 32 cents in my pocket. I am putting the boots on, my keys are already in my pocket. I am going to go and drink 7 glasses of Irish whiskey; that leaves $10.32 tip for the bartender. Keep in touch.

They arrange to meet. It won’t do any harm. It will be beautiful. His hair parted, her heart skips every other beat; there is future, it’s around the corner and it doesn’t matter what they do, there will be time to patch and rearrange even if it’s a bomb, an apparition, fraud, a fool’s paradise. Time will come on its own accord and lay the emergency aids on their table. That’s none of their concern.

She saw him walk down the street, on main street, at the corner shop with his buddies so many times, so many smiles. Impression, hunch, intuition, they are all there. Even if it is luck and witchcraft, it’s there, it’s in the air; magnetic, enchanting and urgent. This is America. Her skirt writes the fate of the town. She is a princess, everyone knows it.

A film, borrow the car and drive-in, kiss her there. She doesn’t let him go any further that night. A kiss is a kiss and a kiss is enough. For now. The tale wraps itself around their lips, she tells all her friends; she believes and she is right. He lies and tells everyone he already fucked her. But it’s ok because he loves her, he won’t leave once he fucks her, the ring will come, marry me darling?

Days and months marry each other. Months run fast and love is not cheap but it comes easy, in the garden, in the back seat, rain and all that, the beautiful etc. of life. He actually speaks; 3 words, marry me darling? Shivers down the spine, blinks in the eye, hold her hand right there and tight. She says yes. Your mother said yes. Who could blame her? He fucks her that night, fucks her hard.

Beg, borrow, steal and there is money. The wedding is small but friend and foe are at peace for one night, music plays, chocolate cake, cheap beer, they dance. Their apartment is small but the curtains are handmade, the bread she bakes is rockhard; he likes it regardless. Now they have to wait, with this bread in the shade, for 9 months. There is a seed. Your seed.

Well, then there is you. Pretty, you cry a lot. Name? You must have a good name. They search dictionaries, ask friends, look through gardening books and voila! There is your name. You love your name, it’s the only gift you will appreciate from the future or the past, whatever you want to call it.

The rest of this story is old, told many times: He left a few days after, or few months after. 6 years later, he sent you a postcard. He didn’t come to your graduation. 4 years after that, he wrote a letter; it said the weather was warm and he was well and how is school, by the way? He buys and sells horses or he buys and sells houses or he buys and sells stocks or he hunts tigers in the forest. He is dirt poor or he is filthy rich. He didn’t say where he was. Either case, he is alive and you can read now and write and forget even. You’ve learned to forget, that’s good. It is good that he is alive, there is still years to come. Time will come on its own accord and you already know he feels he has a debt to pay. That’s good. This kind of debt doesn’t get interest. We can wait a little longer. A meeting perhaps, a cup of coffee. 10 years from now or let it be 20. It will take 5 minutes and we will forgive 30 years in 3 seconds. But a debt is a debt even if it takes 3 seconds to pay. So you let it go until it comes around on its own, there is nothing else to do, there must be a cycle to all this; all things circle themselves. The rule of leaving is the same as the rule of coming back, you know this. Sooner or later, you will have that coffee.

A few years later, he marries a bigger woman. Bigger than your mother. Age happens to everyone and the size of her bosom loses its relevance. The bigger bosomed wife gives him another child. His name is almost as good as yours.

On a sunny day, he collapses in his office; heart attack. On a sunny day, he falls off his favorite horse and breaks his neck. On a sunny day, he gets killed by the tiger he was supposed to hunt. On a sunny day, he falls of the porch of the new house he was trying to sell.

He dies without paying that debt but the debt lives on. His son takes it over. He is young, parts his hair, arranges to meet a girl at the corner shop, her skirt writes the fate of the town, this is America, chocolate cake, cheap beer, time will come on its own accord.

He keeps everything she ever gave him in a box. Mostly obselete loose ends and meaningless word couplings, I and you this, I and you that, we then, we would. When the car did this, when your mother cooked that, building up, waiting for a sunny Sunday to be returned; in place and as it should be. The weather gets warmer, blossoms reappear, the days are a bit longer. He still waits for something to fall from the sky, hit him on the head so he never has to return the box wishing it would disappear on its own accord; quietly and without unnecessary debate. Go box, go.

The box doesn’t go. Everyday the box stays, it gets more and more irrelavant; it quiets down, its seams creak a little more, no, it doesn’t get fatter, just older. Letters fly out of it. A to Z. Backwards and in languages we can’t comprehend, it forms more words; I can’t this, you can’t that, when you, when I, if we, if you. It gets worse, turns into jibberish, flat and outlined, still talking. We are still talking. This hotel, that room, your dress, socks in the drawers, raising glasses to victories of no specific battle. We, the army beat the army that was ours. What a victory! Flags up, cheers, mate. Let’s fuck.

We fuck. Get inside, baby. For a moment, the battle is physical. Win me. Win me over. Sides change, weapons change, bullets bought and sold. The box rattles under the bed, she puts on a show, he watches. They laugh, sorry to laugh. Her boots paint the walls black, she falls on the floor, splash! Whiskey glass broken, her eyes are saying something, she can barely hear it. He certainly can’t. Bathroom, fridge, let’s make coffee? No. He whispers something to her. She can’t hear it. She stretches out on the floor, legs spread. He pulls her boots off and pins flowers on her hair, carries her back to the bed. She forgets why. Sorry, darling, I forgot why. He puts a song on the stereo and whispers again. Hear me, darling, hear me if you can.

The box rattles more. They stay inside for days, nobody sees them, nobody finds them. There is no TV.

On Sunday, they buy a car. Hello Mercedes. Gas is expensive. In diesel wheels, they drive off. Till the tires are flat, till they find money. Sell the car, buy a horse. No, don’t be silly, who rides horses these days? They expected something. Something more.

9 years and more. A box of letters, a wish for a horse and a diesel. What more?

It came fast, it came pretty; your dress and hair in complete unison, unanimous, I don’t even know the right word. You know all this. At your age, you’re still questioning your reasons for doing it, doing it well, doing it wrong, cheap or expensive, as if there was a camera watching you; slow footsteps, floorcreaks, you’re out of there, for a brief moment or a whole night, it’s the same thing; all of time is madeup. Not of seconds, minutes or hours but of every decision you made; a phone call, an elevator, taxi ride, Manhattan’s lights behind you and then we’re in Brooklyn; far from the hotel.

After four years, seeing you is no ordinary occurence in my life. I can’t be quiet about it, so first, forgive me, all apologies..

You know me. You know the parts well, unclear parts, unleashed parts, splinter, limb, my roles against yours.

Time teaches people each other; that’s all time is good for, nothing else. My crooked finger, your scar, the night I fell off the porch and you screamed, headlights, earthquakes and there is more. Me as I am in your construction and mine is inevitable as well; the version of you who is more real than you yourself. So time moved on, finally, we pushed it, all the way out to here. Now it’s here, now it’s gone, you are not in it now, you are not in it now, it’ll come back in a minute.. And then, limb again, hello scar, your mother’s letters.

Time is useless. Other than this. This is time’s job; today’s coffee is time’s job, your fragile voice, unaltered and uniform. Benevolence is time’s job; it builds a gift that knows not to be given, then that same time compensates, it compensates for it’s own lack, relief and out of either goodwill or empathy it disguises itself. What else can disguise 4 years? What else yearns for itself? The stone wants to remain a stone and whatever you and I do or whatever partial concern we throw at it, you and I are time’s job. They do not have soy milk at this cafe.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.. Let’s put that beauty junk aside for a minute. The beauty junk that exactly and specifically fuels time’s machine. Let me understand myself first; necessarily understand myself. And you, too. Throw the mirror out for today’s coffee. Mirrors are useless. I wake up like all men wake up, in the course of kindness, neighbors, business associates, friends, deal and bargain cutters, I will be asked what I am like. The question is simple and you hear it too; maybe slightly, only slighty more than you ask it yourself: What am I like?

Whether you are awake or asleep doesn’t negate the question. It’s simplicity kills you at hello. Am I kind? Am I understanding? Am I smart? Am I? Your gut feeling says yes or no, it says yes one day, no the other, yes to one another. It also preaches, your gut. Your gut says “you need to change”. Mister. Lady. Your gut knows nothing. It’s just a gut. Nevertheless, you let it speak. You say yes. You say no. You say mostly. Whatever you say, the second and simpler question shoots you in the forehead before you can even answer the first one. The second question: Enough?

Am I kind, enough? Am I understanding, enough? Am I smart, enough? Am I, enough?

That’s enough. I am not going to go on deeper into this for it’s not why I am writing. I am writing this because you are time’s gift to me and I know that I am to you. You are my other gut; the one who knows me. In a world riddled with coincidence and circumstance, what we are will never be clear to ourselves. It will only be clear to those that time has picked for that job. I am not talking about love, desire or lust. Surely, they will come in this picture at one point or another but they will also go. What remains is the mirror that doesn’t show anything; only knows it. Then, the useless bastard time has done it’s job. I know myself because you know me. You know yourself because I know you.

So, old lover, precious friend, keeper of silent tremors, thank you. For the coffee, this hour, and reminding me what I am like.

See you soon or later. Better late than never. Whatever you do, don’t die. I’ve already lost one.

P.S: Sorry about the soy milk.

The biggest lie schools of “acting” and “directing” have manufactured is the “process”. This “process”, they claim, is the essence and the real development of the actor’s character study and also somewhat relates the director to the actor and vice versa, pretending to aid a better telling of the story or narrative. This “process” pretends to happen in pre-production or so-called development stage and during production itself, simultaneously disregarding the subject matter and the more important aftermath.

Believing and practicing the “process” leads to self-admiration on both sides of the camera and stage, bringing forth a bogus sense of pretense that lifts the focus from the work itself to the people involved in the production; allowing the cinema to act as a playground for the actors’ personal manifestations and self-importance (covered up by the misbelief that it will ultimately create better elements and building blocks for the story to be told).

Among many other unpleasant side effects, the “process” is largely responsible for most of the oversaturation of narrative and character in cinema at large while shrinking the essential purpose of celluloid art: representation of ideas and behavior; a notion much closer to painting rather than storytelling, theater or photography (though an analogy is not necessary or useful).

Cinema’s purpose is not to tell stories. But the current state of new cinema, including the so-called “independents” tell stories; translating literature with a linear narrative onto the cinematic medium that wants to remain predominantly visual, behavioral and theoretical as that is its nature, birthright and a much more interesting place to be than the narrative-based platform which belongs and works better in literature. The idea of the book or novel is perfect and beautiful as it is, it doesn’t need to be carried over to other artforms.

Extended practice of the “process” and the muscle narrative over the last century has poisoned cinema by mesmerizing audiences and the directors by the “and then and then”; stimulating the human mind to find out “what happens next”.

Cinema has its own vocabulary and syntax to build meaning. It does not need to use tools and structures of literature and/or theater to construct its unique substance which can pretty much only be described by its own name; cinema.

The extreme oversaturation of dramatic narrative and the “actor’s process” has led most actors and directors to believe that acting is a profession of its own. This is alarming and dangerous. There is no profession such as acting; it is NOT possible to be an ACTOR that can simultaneously practice this false profession in both theater and cinema; the notion of the ACTOR that ACTS a certain CHARACTER no matter what the composition format is a counterfeit reference to the theater world before the invention of the moving pictures.

A quick thoughtless amalgam of the self-sustaining system of PROCESS, NARRATIVE, CHARACTER and ACTING in the 1930s (primarily for financial reasons) has given birth to the organism known as the STAR which, being also a cardboard profession, is not as corrupt as the modern day version of the CROSS-INDUSTRY ACTOR.

Last paragraph: I am not going to say anything about theater-acting or any other kind of acting that might be out there today as they are not my concern or interest. But I would like to say a few things about acting in the cinema. Acting in cinema means that your profession is CINEMA and NOT acting. Fundamentally, this means that any “actor” partaking in cinematic art should be engulfed by it and realize the responsibility they carry to a medium that is not only bigger and more complex than their personal manifestations or goal but also requires a certain love, deep interest and education in its past, present and future on an intellectual and theoretical basis. Cinema is partly a self-referential art and requires studying. It’s an art of ideas that is not newly-born, it’s labyrinth of idea representation, identification-reflection, micro/macro realization is not something to stumble on in a magazine at a train station. It is much bigger than ACTING and can only encompass it. I am, on a somewhat regular basis, faced with actors who see cinema as ANOTHER medium they can work in. This unaware and childish instinct to ACT for the sake of ACTING is the main reason why auditions are flooded with disappointment and the market is oversaturated with films that don’t mean a thing or have any afterlife. A real FILM doesn’t end when it ends. It has an afterlife because it’s a film of IDEAS, because it works off of a history of cinema, because it’s another entry in the library of cinema that can not and does not exist with single entities but as a library at large. To put it simpler; an actor that hasn’t studied or is not at least genuinely interested in the IDEAS (not necessarily films) of, say, FELLINI or FASSBINDER or BERGMAN (eventhough I don’t like him) or doesn’t know who MELIES is, is only clearly self-obsessed with desire for personal exhibition and thus will not find himself properly situated in cinema. The cinema is big, it’s doors are open, but it requires more investment and study from the ACTOR than just ACTING.

In a nutshell: The cinema is NOT an artform composed of ACTING, CHARACTER, NARRATIVE and the PROCESS. It is a much bigger platform of THOUGHT-IMAGE-BEHAVIOR-HYPOTHESIS construction that can only be composed by studying its own essence, history and complexity at all its levels. To leave you with another example of what I mean; EGON SCHIELE’s paintings are much more precious to cinema than SCORCESE will ever be.

Horses. The horse that never sleeps. Easy metaphor. No time to think, no unnecessary complications. There is a horse that never sleeps. This horse is clearly blind. One knows there is a fence. There will be a jump. The situation is somewhat elevated. Come with your measuring tape, your animals, tie a tie around that neck.

Thousands of years ago, this horse was born. You’ve already thought of Troy. Good. Me and you will ride this horse together. That’s out there. There’s no doubt. We’ve already setup a dream. Someone will dream it. Someone always dreams it, in order to validate it, write it down in history, no matter how starless a night, in the middle of Times Square, Hyde Park, etc. You know what this means.

To be dreamt in return. Like salt dreams of seawater.

So, come be metaphor.

Now, whatever you do, do not let Thanksgiving get to you. The following are simple cautious measures I would like to pass on to all my dear friends this Thanksgiving:

First, if you have a dog; try to keep him outside without a leash as much as you can, he will be thankful for this and your relationship with him will greatly improve. At least, let him run around on the roof.

Do not worry about having Thanksgiving dinner if the day means nothing to you; it’s just another meal but also do not have Thanksgiving dinner if you have not harvested anything this year (this harvesting can be in the form of artistic work or a good return on your good behavior with a certain person). Realize that all these days have really lost all their meaning and you’re doing this because everyone else is. If you dig deeper, you might even find that you detest this kind of behavior and celebration. If that is the case, do NOT dig deeper.

Ignore all religious talk that might slip through the course of the meal. Do not fight against it. You are outnumbered. “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was to convince the world he didn’t exist.” You are not the devil and he really doesn’t exist. Realize that you are sitting around and pseudo-thanking pseudo-something while your army is killing people in another country. Keep eating regardless. You’ll have to eat something so this might just as well be it.

If you are a vegetarian, whatever you do, do NOT eat Tofurky! There’s nothing worse than pretending within pretending. Call your family; but only if you call them on a regular basis anyway. If this is the 3rd time this year you’re going to call your mom, hang up the phone immediately and take a shot of vodka instead. Do not worry too much about what you did last Thanksgiving but feel free to compare it to what you did on Halloween. If this starts making you uncomfortable about your personality; drop the thought immediately and take another shot of vodka.

Do not buy organic turkey. Eating organic food is not going to make you live longer; drinking non-organic whiskey with friends and laughing will. Realize that the people you truly love in this world are the ones you can’t work things out with but cannot let go either. If you are single, do not look at happy-looking couples and start thinking if you should pursue a “proper” relationship one of these days. The truth may be they are getting fat, watching TV and petting cats, that is the extent of their happiness. They will never admit it is because of security and habit. Your disfunctional relationship with that special someone with constant relapses and sudden turns and returns is probably much more realistic and will last much longer than theirs. If you are not single, never ever give up your whole self to the other person. Respect yourself but do not think you know anything better than anyone else.

Be proud of your lust, breasts or penis. Do not sleep with every person you find attractive. Only sleep with people you can have brunch with as well. Try to avoid hipsters. After the dinner, do not go to a party in Williamsburg and pretend Andy Warhol is there. He is not. Instead, go to a bar with real people and have a good time with them.
Do not eat too much bread. Smoke less but don’t quit. If you do drugs, start doing them once in a blue moon instead of every weekend. Stop biting your nails. Do not drink decaf coffee. Think about the last person you slept with; if it was good, admit that it wasn’t only sex. If it was bad, do not do it again. If you can’t remember; call them and see if they’d like to try it sober.

Do not try to change people. It won’t happen. Instead, wait for them to change themselves. Appreciate the kindness you receive. Do not put up with stupidity. Whatever you do, do not take anyone for granted. The most beautiful of friends and lovers will walk away the moment they realize you did.

In the end, every spoon will find its dish. Do not lie to yourself. Also realize that the lies you tell others most likely burn out before they reach the shore. People have an amazing ability to let you lie and pretend they believe you. In this case, you would only be racing yourself. Do not EVER race yourself.

Do not play games of Catch. Every horse gets tired at one point and gives up. Do not let people run after you for too long. The more they run, the more they are looking around to see what else is there. Try to get used to hot sauce and whiskey. The sexiest men eat a lot of hot sauce and the sexiest women drink whiskey.

Your siblings are probably the best friends you’ll ever have. Give them money. If you can’t give them money, let them get away with something. Hang out with your grandfather. Buy nice shoes. Do not believe in God. Do not put up with people that believe in God. The biggest sinner of them all is the one who talks about sin. Watch Charlie Chaplin.

Stop trying to look for the truth. The word itself is bogus. Do not wear too much make up. Eat fish. If you don’t already know how to swim, jump into the ocean next chance you get. Know that everything you perceive has been created by you and you have been created by everything that perceives you. Everything happens in this life and stays in this life. It’s like Vegas here. Do not postpone anything. Do not let half-ass things linger too long, either. Admit to love, hate, distrust, care, fetishes, tenderness, loss, gain, hope, weakness, strength. Denial is the enemy of all.

Do not ever ask for pity. The rest comes by itself. Now, put on MEAT IS MURDER on the stereo and dig into that turkey!

Thanksgiving 2007

We’ve come a long way. Within hours, minutes, split seconds. I am talking about trust. There’s no way of telling what it even is. If it exists, I’ll be the first to admit it’s necessary. I denied its existence for a long time. I am about to give that up. There’s a big misconception out there between what is existentialism and what has commonly been referred to as nihilism. Neither definitions are necessary. We would only complicate this tangle further if we rely or base our day-to-day opinions and feelings on either. Let’s just take them out. They are merely reflections; both uneasy; both desperate; both lost in a bottleneck of what is and what isn’t. What you do is what you are. We are constructed by our actions (maybe). And maybe we are constructed by what we enforce on the momentary and “the longer run” by manifestations that feel right more than they are right (or wrong). It may very well be we are not constructed at all. I have a gut feeling none of these are true and they don’t really matter. We must eat, I know that. We must drink that water, you know that. That is something good. And if it feels better to do it together, we’ll do it together. Me specific and you specific. Me at large and you at large. Personal and universal. The rule is true for both.

Some things happen. There is no denying it. The world and its apparitions happen, to us, and somewhat on a daily basis. In sleep as well as awake. We deny a portion of them, admit another, open doors, close them, let a certain light in, leave out another. I am well aware I am speaking generally and metaphorically. It doesn’t matter. I am not at all speaking generally or metaphorically. The last three sentences before this one travel together. Once again, that is ok.

Man writes because man thinks when written down, these things are validated at a slightly higher level than their feeling counterpart. Unfortunately, this is not true or let’s just say I don’t think it is. Let’s do more. Let’s not give up writing them down or thinking either.

Contemplation and orderless cataloging is our nature. Absolutely. But we mostly rely on it when we can’t rely on its birth mother: Life itself.

When we do and live more rather than talk about it, this might not be such a bad place to be if talking about there is less than actually being there and I hope that it is.

I could end this with a million metaphors. They are all as good as the next one. They are true too, but the meta is useless without the phor and vice versa. It’s everyone’s responsibility to fill BOTH parts. Personal and universal. On their own and together.

Death will win every battle but it is wrong to think of death as enemy. I am not writing this to contemplate about that, neither am I writing this so you contemplate it. I am writing this to you, to you who is alive. You specific and you at large.

black sheets. claire. a boat my grandfather burned. the mercedes-benz i’ve fallen in love with. your last goodbye. awful vile pathetic conversations that loop. my last goodbye. overgrown high-school love affair. cigarettes. she talks about herself until even her self doesn’t listen anymore. red. one black tie. glad to have lived this far. robert walser. sharon. bunkbeds. are you married? amazing friend nobody else likes. katie. kati. kat. cigarettes. a grave in the middle of nothing. an indian wind. inheritance. nick cave. this film. pregnancy scares. a telephone call never made. a telephone call should’ve never made. whiskey. too much whiskey. coffee. a bone that hurts on rainy days. rain. do not like rain. great man around town. a boat in greece. a lie about a boat in greece. carlee. my apricot tree. a room full of watermelons. nietzsche. the summer that lasted too long. trying to figure out how it started, what started. a spark. confetti. her virginity. honking car at 3am. phoebe. 10 days in prague. laura. lost boy in tangier. a girl who held my hand and jumped on stage. a face i couldn’t remember. when i jumped on stage and broke my leg. locked myself in my car. deer close to headlights. she cried. tace. father’s cancer. nice shoes. elisa. repeating french vocabulary while crying. a turkish girl with an amazing ass. fucking. hotel room in morocco. a door that creaks. stoned english couple on boat to italy. moustache. emily. a house torn down. year-long fights about money. kill uncle. shalalae. not too much ice. liz. the other liz. the rabbit that died. winking at each other in 4th grade. great roommate. great friend. nicole. cactus and harbors. mad man at the piraeus harbor. $27 stolen. $50 found. another nicole. german. heather. i really can’t remember her name. a hole in my face. lucinda’s death. hospital smell. an alarm clock wrong. the morning i woke up to find my father dead. kids at play watching us secretly as we made out on the rocks. magdalena. a 28-year old crying for a 15-year old through a bus window. maya. never got beaten up. lebanese woman with endless pseudo-romantic requests. i broke someone’s finger. 3 people whose names I cannot mention. the girl who stripped for me in porn heels. trying to avoid a never-ending loop of yes and no. the most beautiful girl who wrote to me. indian friend so dear to my heart (never thought i could be such good friends with a woman.) she said “we have to talk, you’re killing me!” constant guilt games. retarded macho-gay hipsters. games of pity. pathetic games. jessica’s breasts are 34c. my guitar i haven’t touched in a year. fish. more fish. fish all around. bullet. half a person. the other jessica. 29th birthday. useless phone conversations at 5am. sitting in front of the fridge naked. impossible alcohol withdrawal. merrill. people that force you to apologize. bob dylan. you liked it. the girl who looked at my penis in the basement using matches for light when we were 14. the man who shot my dog. small breasts and penniless depressed lady in the middle of istanbul whose cab i had to pay for because she kissed me. my new work. dreamless. fucking your girlfriend’s best friend and wondering what kind of best friend she is. crissy. the night i made it home alive. daphne. weird self-assesments. freddie mercury’s death. beets mistaken for blood. the vast archive of next moments you are guaranteed to come on top. chocolate. luisa. kurt cobain’s death. claire’s earring in my beard. cobra. tiger. the girl i am ashamed to have slept with. honesty. disgusting human being accusing me of nothings. my two beautiful secrets. rumi. forgetting how. harmful distrust. understanding too much too soon. hurtful relapse. sex in the garden with wet leaves. rebecca. how she wouldn’t believe me. my father’s clarinet. lost tooth. nice hands. dressing up for me. the letter i wrote to a lover covering the basics of existence and the meaning of worthlessness. emma. you are man and you age better. there’s more. a deal made without details. i’ve really only fallen in love twice. learning to have enough. leila (how beautiful you are). people’s names you can’t mention so you don’t break the magic. green tea morning with your winning smile. masking tape on her nipples. that blonde’s long legs and small breasts. binary code. the tattoos on her ass. bruno s. million-dollar blowjob. absinth. a kiss that came 3 years late. feeling right to have learned to put an end to things. nice fat zeros. sticking her ass out of the cab window. two paintings buried deep in my closet. rude person asking for pity. m. rude person always wanting to be the victim. red heels. bruno schulz. all this will soon be over. selfish slut. thinking why you while the others thought why them. the bruise on her breast. william s. burroughs. spend at least 20 minutes everyday completely naked. one early evening on that couch twelve years ago. standing still with my eyes closed and trying to fall flat on my face. lhasa. sitting by the big rock in spain and telling each other it was over. 6 fucking years of never ending. another 6 years with another never ending. monica. all that i am forgetting. the joy in forgetting. racing eventhough when you know you are only racing yourself. my hand up her skirt as the boys watched through the bar window and she smiled at them. sex in the corn field. stuck in the middle of the pond. sharon’s naked picture. another’s virginity. werner herzog. she only seems smart because she doesn’t speak much. remembering a particular room of sleep. the one-night stand that turned into 6 months of torture until she had to be carried out. best brother. tom waits. my mother. everyone’s mother. the bliss of finding out that you’ve learned to change your ways. red book, black rose. federico fellini. constant acknowledgement of relapses in everyone else’s lives. good posture. a threesome that stopped at the right time. klaus kinski. the turkish army. the year-long lie. walking out on time. knowing how to turn tables for ones you used to care for. the slap in the face that I certainly deserved. jorge luis borges. slow games of chess. always missed when gone. you’ve read this far. that sunny sunday you decided not to put up any longer with people who are reckless with your heart. i can’t remember the name of my first girlfriend and feel awful about it even if it lasted just 3 weeks. the monday you learned not to be reckless with other people’s hearts. incapability to keep your mouth shut. disregard. cybil. truly beautiful gestures that keep us alive. always wondering how she can even keep it together enough to buy cigarettes. debts. bargains. expired conversations. one day goodbye will be farewell. she used to carry me on her back. mirrorless. the night i couldn’t make it home. the story is old, i know, but it goes on. lucinda. where were you?

(to be continued and extended till death do us part)

On a regular basis, I am faced with Robert Walser’s assessment of the world. I believe we all are:
“Everything that’s called ‘the world,’ and how grand and exciting what I privately call the world is to me.”
It seems all short-circuits of emotion and behavior take place on that thin line of moments between comprehending and trying to digest the inevitable difference between ‘the world’ and what we ‘privately call the world’.

Everything transforms itself there in those tiny moments which are repeated till our possible death. The meanings of the following words oscillate:

action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.

Coincidence: is the word that merely means the other has clashed into your chain of moments when you unconciously made a decision between ‘the world’ and ‘your world’ on a given specific word/feeling/notion. This happens in split seconds.
Then, the meanings of the following words oscillate once again, (they oscillate wildly):

action, love, debt, forgive, request, hope, dismiss, lose, buy, sell, touch, fuck, run away, hurt, repair.

The 2nd oscillation gives birth to the following figures of speech:

tables have turned, put yourself in my shoes, say i am you, the lunatics have taken over the asylum, the pearl that buys itself.

By then, ‘the world’ is left alone. You no longer know the world, you only know what you privately call the world.
So the world is alone. You’ve divorced it.

The only thing that remains is your capability to see the same pattern in other people’s lives and when you do, if you do, be brave about it. Don’t hide the fact that you understand them.
The world has billions of lovers. What you privately call the world only has one.
I hope I was able to explain why I’ve been feeling so good recently.

The fall has finally arrived. And when I say that, I completely acknowledge I am making small talk. Strangers only talk about the weather. But honestly, I am glad the summer is over. Summer-time is accident-prone. My summers at least, usually suffer from a greater number of accidents than normal. I am one of those who put spring and summer in the same pot.

Then the fall. Big beautiful fall. Autumn; easy, we’ve done this before, guns back in the barrell, worms back in the can. Bye-bye summer, goodbye sweating lips, breakfasts to make, lunch to be arranged, as for dinner is lost into the night; humid and insistent. Bye-bye humid. Goodbye conditional persistence.

On a thin chain of next ones and what-happened-nexts, I put my hand out to shake this past summer’s hand. Have you been a good one? Have you behaved as summer should behave? Are we actually going to shake on it?

An orange hoodie, a pair of cream-colored boots, a sock in the kitchen drawer, 3 films, a baby in the making, a chandelier made of garbage cans, a kiss 3-years past due, a conversation handful of “finally” and “why now?” somehow mixed in the same sentence, 23 gallons of quality bourbon, a dance that lasted two days, a telephone call of repair and recap, one loveletter (not sent), a new set of lies and a new set of instructions to dance around them, coffee and chocolate as usual, $27 stolen, 3 consecutive days of one thought (sans alcohol), new soles and old feet for the same shoes, a bargain taken, a bargain given, a Mexican, an Italian, masking tape on nipples, a kiss for a name, some glass hidden in the grass, a knock on a door at 5am, a hand-over at 8am, a phone call of half-truths, laughter in a bottle with old friends, confetti on a street corner, a walk to someone else’s door, a light that glimmered at that door, slow games of chess, a walk through an old park, a misplaced phone call, that beautiful brunch on that honest morning, that lost face found on that sunday night, some hands held, longer sideburns, new soap, a request granted, an arm to break, a question never asked, bets others made on us, a fish lost in her own ocean, the last payment on a twelve-year love lease, new curtains and there is more.

There’s more but you get the gist of it, dear summer, goodbye summer, goodbye as I shake your hand again this time around but my dear summer, one day, goodbye will be farewell.

So, let’s continue:

Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn’t be here talking about it. We’d either be fucking or I would’ve been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant “false dilemna” and then after that it said “perfect solution”

Well, after staring at the screen for about half an hour, I decided there’s no need to continue this; False Dilemna. Perfect Solution.

I remember your name. I don’t have your phone number nor do I know your last name so I can’t spy on you on the internet. Your sock is still in the kitchen drawer and as promised I have fixed the flush. I hope to run into you one fall afternoon when the sky’s the color of a lonely wren. How? How do I find you when I haven’t lost you? You don’t even know my real name. You will never find this for you have never lost it. Petitio principii.

I usually do not write this directly without metaphors but this one just begs for it:

I can not mention her name out of respect so we’re going to go with “she” or “woman”. (I hope you are not reading this. I just had to do it, sorry.) She was hesitant to believe and stay or to forget and walk away. She stood there. I stood there. At guard but also willing to drop it at any moment, waiting for the right (or wrong) word to be spoken. We both knew that one of us might not be there tomorrow to speak even right or wrong. We were old enough. The conversation took place as follows (or as close to it as possible):

Man (I) : I like your hesitance.
Woman (She): I am 34.
Man: I will hold your hand and please react as naturally as possible.
Woman: As in?
Man: No pretense.
Woman: No premise.

I thought she had said “promise” but she had actually said “premise”. Man holds Woman’s hand.

Woman: That’s too tight but it’s ok.
Man: Should we stop talking about it?
Woman: No, we’re old enough.
Man: But words will ruin it, no?
Woman: No, that’s your own past. Don’t curse this by what has happened before. We will talk.
Man: We just met.
Woman: We will talk before we “have” to talk.
Man: Thank you. That’s like this thing called petitio principii.
Woman: I know. We’re avoiding it.
Man: You know what petitio principii means?!
Woman: I said I was 34 and I read books.
Man: I love that word. I mean, yes, the word is cute but the meaning.
Woman: It’s beautiful.
Man: You know there are two types of it. Both as puzzling.
Woman: Yes.
Man: Are you fucking with me?
Woman: The conclusion comes before the premise OR the premise is the consequence of the conclusion.
Man: Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?
Woman: I said no premise. (smiles)
Man: I thought you had said “no promise”
Woman: I said premise.
Man: It took me years to even come close to understand petitio principii.
Woman: It’s the closest thing to the word “love”. It might even be a better word for that feeling.
Man: Literally, it means “looking for a beginning” but it supposes there’s already an end in place and it’s like..uh.. swimming backwards.
Woman: No, no. It means “looking for a premise”. That’s different from a beginning. Principii means premise in Latin.
Man: Then it doesn’t suppose there’s an end.
Woman: No, but it supposes a conclusion which has already been accepted by both parties.
Man: Are you talking about love or logic?
Woman: It’s the same thing. It’s like saying magic and work are different. They are not.
Man: It is so strange to me that we’re talking about petitio principii. I think about it all the time. I write about it. I am trying to understand it. I am always trying to explain it to someone and I inevitably fail. I’ve never met anyone who knows the word even.
Woman: Me, too. Me, neither (laughs) It is so hard to explain because when you are trying to explain it, you are once again in petitio principii.
Man: Fuck.
Woman: How did you come upon it?
Man: An exgirlfriend told me. Claire.
Woman: Did she know what it meant exactly?
Man: No, she just liked the way it sounded.
Woman: Petitio principii.
Man: Stop it! Aristotle’s version is written on the wall at my apartment.
Woman: Some people say it means “begging the question”
Man: That’s an easy way out.
Woman: I agree. If that was all it meant, we wouldn’t be here talking about it. We’d either be fucking or I would’ve been home already.
Man: I am still holding your hand.
Woman: I once read in a dictionary that it meant “false dilemna” and then after that it said “perfect solution”

Both laugh.

–to be continued (I need to sleep a bit)-

Or he doesn’t dream, claims to not dream. The two go hand in hand; the dream and its persistent claim. The clouds shrink when he sleeps. Silhouettes stop whispering. The clock’s shadow doesn’t tick on time.

Let’s get this straight: In a world where there is no dreaming, Werner Herzog wakes up every morning. Leila, too, wakes up every morning. You, too, wake up every morning. Werner doesn’t dream. Leila doesn’t dream either. I don’t know about you; according to some, I may be the one and only person that sees your dreams. According to others, we haven’t even met. The equation and the odds are as good as we make them.

There’s an essential difference between Werner and Leila; Werner claims to not dream. Leila says she dreams, but in actuality, she doesn’t. She is too scared to be someone who doesn’t dream. (Also note that Leila and Werner do not know each other)

She makes up dreams, to tell people, as if she dreamt them. She thinks she can construct them as freely as she can since they are dreams and do not need to make sense or ride on the logistics of the awake-life. She builds them with apparitions, hopes, regrets, ghostly wishes, reverse disappointments but mostly with secret code she derives from moments when people (we) misunderstood her.

In the back alley, the birds stood around waiting for the sky to fall in; bright day, come gather, shrinking clouds and all; the carnival was about to begin. Weapons were dropped; her sirens silenced, she looked beautiful at dusk. Only if we could understand the little glimmer, she wouldn’t have made up all these dreams, all the half-truths and unusable lies.

But we didn’t. Nor did we stop to wonder what it was we wanted from her. She spoke, surely, she spoke in tongues and codes from a land we weren’t allowed in. She called it bad land, crooked land, broken land, an edge; a tiny thin line between what we referred to as reality and she referred to her as, well, herself. Constantly balancing on the fishing line between us (us people who buy and sell) and a strange endless ocean behind her, back there. It is not that she knew what that ocean was made of. She swam there nevertheless. Amongst kelp, shipwrecks and seaweed. No fish lived there. Fish lived over here. Fish lived with us.

And then me. There’s me, that’s where I come in. If you can believe this, I was there, on top of a blind horse, gaging, trying to figure out which way the dirty wind was actually blowing. Dusty road, I thought, I can blame it all on the dusty road. This horse isn’t sick, he is just blind! And now come on, in this world, there is no real left or real right so what’s the use of sight?!. One with another for one without the other couldn’t just be one another.