an amusing word play on "perfume" or whatever word you choose from it:

the virtual mind
is a kind of
ghost
perversion
père version
la version du
père
the version of
the father
the fuming
father
perfumiste
père-fumist
père-fume

lacan dot

izdüşüm

izdüşümlerin fotoğraflarını çekiyorum. yeniden görmek için, anımsamak için, düşleri, izleri düşenleri, düşen düşleri. unutmamak için. hayat dediğimiz şey hatırlamadan ve unutmadan ibaret.

hatırladıklarımız kadar hatırlamadıklarımız mıyız? hatırlamamayı seçebilir mi insan? seçerse unutabilir mi? ya hiç izi düşmeyenler? bir de, izsiz düşenler? hani, iz bırakmaksızın düşenler?

anlardan mı, insanlardan mı bahsediyorum? bellek için bir farkı yok. fotoğraf çekiyorum, anı dememek için.

blue box

I am thinking of the difference between night-dreams and day dreams
they should be called with different words
like in Turkish

also of the intrusive confrontation of learning another's night-dream
which is personal, always elusive, unintelligible
a net of unsignifying signs for me
ethics of confessions
I am no priest
nor an analyst
(neither you are)

since there is no two different words in English
for making clear which I mean
I play on their slippage

looking in through my blue box

dreaming father

Sigmund Freud, 1856-1939

the father of psychoanalysis, ouups! did I say "father"? Correcting: the genius who repudiated the legitimization of the "normal" upon human conduct, who by incorporating into human disposition explained away the "superstitious" and "irrational", and who, by this way, saved a place for the dreams on the stage by giving their worth. He was missing on this page from the beginning.

Barbara Kruger, Thinking of You

Barbara Kruger,
"Feel is something you do with your hands", 1985

"... we can know many things just by the look of the eyes when people are silent; ... their whole body is clear ... and each is like an eye, and nothing hidden or artificial, but before one speaks to another the other sees and knows." 

Plotinus, IV, 3 [27]

Love is a Sickness

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,
All remedies refusing;
A plant that with most cutting grows,
Most barren with best using.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries—
Heigh ho!

Love is a torment of the mind,
A tempest everlasting;
And Jove hath made it of a kind
Not well, nor full nor fasting.
Why so?

More we enjoy it, more it dies;
If not enjoy'd, it sighing cries—
Heigh ho!
Samuel Daniel. 1562–1619

I wish I could post the song instead of the poem, because it is a song more than a poem for me, (I used to sing it), which portrays very well the perception of love as a sickness, but of the mind, on which a lot of Medieval scholars wrote treatises. They were trying to provide an analysis of its symptoms and suggest cures. And when they were calling it a sickness, they were not speaking metaphorically, No!; they were speaking of a sickness, just like any other sicknesses. For your enjoyment: "Questions on the Viaticum". The seriousness of their preoccupation and their explanations seem mostly funny from the point of view of our knowledge of medicine and human sciences. But I can't keep myself from asking: have we arrived at a better understanding? Have we moved any closer in explaining this feeling (or syndrome, depends on how you approach it)? Or, rather, have we gave up the effort of trying to give an account of it and left the concept (and the thing itself, I don't know what it is, this_thing_called_love) to be exhausted by the consumerism of advertisements and horoscopes? And, lastly, will there be an end to my rhetorical questions? And, loss of words, I sigh!

It has been only weeks since I wrote my autumn haiku, and now the time came for me to write one for the winter, for while I sit in my warm and softly lit room, it snows outside. But wait! The trees still have some green leaves. The trees still have green leaves.

These days I wonder which one is better: to dream during the sleep and be reminded of those left aside, swept under the rug in the light of the day; or better not to dream at all. But if everyone dreams, is it possible to choose not to remember? If dreams are gates to our hidden desires and fears, the things we would prefer not to be reminded, the judgments we flee to make, maybe the question is whether one wants to know or not. The curious thing with dreams is that one does not have the choice to decide on that. It is just there, right in one's face. What does it say? It says, "the more you run the more I'll come after you." It is like a psycho postman who is obsessed with getting his mails delivered to the right person by the hand. Ok. I got my mail. So what's next? I don't know.

"No, It's Not Fatigue"

No. Fatigue, why?
It's an abstract sensation
of concrete life
-something like a scream
to be screamed,
something like anxiety
to be suffered.
To be suffered completely
Or to be suffered as ...
Yes, to be suffered as ...
That's it: as ...
As what?
If I knew I wouldn't have this false fatigue within me.
F. Pessoa (Alvaro de Campos)

first breeze of autumn -
turning of the leaves, to soil,
I breathe in the air.

airport inversions, Munich

unuseful lists # 2

çalışma zamanı
az konuş, çok iş yap.
araştır
başvur
karar ver
arzula
heyecanlan
üzerine git
vazgeç
geri dön
yeniden başla
yeniden heyecanlan
geri durma
hata yap
yanıl
hatalarını affet
sahip olduğun tek şeyi kucakla

gözle
seyret
öğren
coşkuyla izle
akışa katıl
merak et
izinden git
müziğe uy
seviş

az konuş, çok şey söyle
gözlerini kapa
düşle
düşlerini anımsa
öğrendiklerini unut
benliğini yık
ve sonra
ötekinin imgesinde
yeniden kur
aşk dediğin nedir ki?

"Bu kuru söz kalabalığı, sana dokunamadığım için. Seni kollarıma alıp uyuyabilseydim, bunca mürekkep şişede de durabilirdi. Birlikteyken gene erdemli kalabilirdik. Ama bir süre ayrı olmamız gerekiyor, gerçekte böylesi de daha iyi. Ah, kesinlikle güvenebilsek geleceğe …"

D. H. Lawrence

laleye güzelleme

A flower am I, the tulip.
Rose and violet are my haloes;
I, the queen of all gardens.
Mehmet the Conqueror

Drink wine! long must you sleep within the tomb,
Without a friend, or wife to cheer your gloom;
Hear what I say, and tell it not again,
"Never again can withered tulips bloom."
Omar Khayyam

zifiri sıcak;
dumanın kıvrımında
asılı düşler

It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it.
...
Fearlessness may be a gift but perhaps more precious is the courage acquired through endeavour, courage that comes from cultivating the habit of refusing to let fear dictate one's actions, courage that could be described as 'grace under pressure' - grace which is renewed repeatedly in the face of harsh, unremitting pressure.

Daw Aung San Suu Kyi

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