Death of Distance

Günün ilk ışıklarıyla şarkılarına başlayacak olanlara imreniyorum. Yaşlı bir kuş gibi yüreğim, suskun. Neşenin parıltıları düşmüş kanadından. Şarkının ilk dizesini unutmuş, sonrasını getiremiyor. Kimbilir hangi havai fişeklerinden ürkmüş, ürktüğü için seyrine varamadığı.

Hiçbir yere gitmeksizin yürüyorum. Sokaklar belirsizce birbirine bağlanıyorlar, ağaran gökyüzü gece lambalarından sızan ışığı körleştiriyor. Tepeden aşağıya yılan gibi kıvrılarak inen dar sokağın son dönemecinde ıhlamur karşılıyor uzaktan, tüm geçmiş baharlarımı yüklenmiş. Bu bahar da geçmekte, havada asılı ıhlamur kokusu gibi.

Yollar birbirine bağlanarak uzanıp gidiyorlar önümde, mesafeyi kısaltmaksızın.

Mesafenin ölümü, neyin ölümü?
Mesafenin ölümü, neyin başlangıcı?

An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.
Gandhi

inside - outside

"Pathology has made us acquainted with a great number of states in which the boundary lines between the ego and the external world become uncertain or in which they are actually drawn incorrectly. There are cases in which parts of a person's own body, even portions of his own mental life -his perceptions, thoughts and feelings-, appear alien to him and not belonging to his ego; there are cases in which he ascribes to the external world things that clearly originate in his own ego and that ought to be acknowledged by it."

Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 1930.

kuştepe'nin güzelleri

the city I love

you teach me how to hate
everyday, once and again

from the incidental passions
to our mundane obsessions
I love to watch your cosmic feature
transform
everyday, inch by inch

I love to travel to your borders
crossing the limits
traversing your routes
watching you move, watching you groove
everyday, every hour of the day

I love to flow into your crowds
getting dispersed, becoming anonymous
your fragile texture, insecure encounters
I am learning to expect the unexpected
in your restless presence
everyday, anew

I love to miss you when I am here
the nostalgia I accumulate
before leaving
you, the city I love
the city I love to hate

bowl in the fishes

nothing more complicated than a full bowl of water and two fishes running away from each other. one fish is yellow, the other is blue. they turn their backs to one another and see the reflection of the other. the reflections are intimidating, they stand next to the image of the self two fishes in a bowl and their lunatic movements. the dull gaze of the outsiders. they don’t hear the music inside. they don’t hear the rhythm of the synchronic movements of the fishes’ tails. the bowl is just small, but it is full of water, blue water, blue as the sky above. and the rain falling from the sky, bounces back from the surface. it doesn’t move the water though, it doesn’t create any shivering. so the reflections stand still, though there is the sky falling, and the rain falling, and big drops falling. the bouncing rivers of water are running down around the bowl. the bowl full of water, and the bowl is water, inside is water, all water, and the outside is all water.