Goodbye, 2011! You've been exceptionally kind to me, I will not forget.

Our Respective Hilltops

And I know I am in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
none of my heroes.
I never stocked up on henna
on the outbreak of World War II
I never wept for Salvador Dali,
never stood before a fascist squad
their guns pointing at my chest,
I never lived on the island of Hydra
never met Marianne
never wore the bolo tie
never wrote, never read
never sang.

And I know you are in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
none of your heroes.
I don’t even know about your heroes
I don’t even have an Edith Piaf voice.

And you don’t even have a bark yet
And my allusions are rotten to you yet

And I know you are in mortal danger
when layers of cold cinnamon stick to my stomach
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when my coat smells of you
and when my gloves smell of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my ankles
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves.
but

I am
deaf.
I didn’t even hear you sing
I couldn’t even appreciate—
let me write songs for you
let me write plays
let me write you an entire musical, an opera
act in it, sing it, do it live it hurt it rip it kill it dismember it if you like
and let us remain
on our respective hilltops now
i haven’t been told about bridges.


And I know I cannot live endangered
when the Book of Longing smells of you
when the book of longing smells of you
and when I start wearing a crown of hollies
and when holly leaves start pressing against my pulse
and when my underwear is filled with holly leaves
and my solitude torments me
and my solitude speaks to me
‘I watched over you for so long
You cannot forsake me now’
and she isn’t even right
and she isn’t even truthful
but I have to agree with her
until the next impossible chase—
because she is right because she is truthful
because I can drink and dance and dance and dance
but I will walk back home with her
I will hold her hand
I will lie beside her
but

I am
happy this way. Until—
I don’t protest.
And with the uncontested authority
of a future poet writer playwright actor
of a singer,
I forgive you all your sins
I give you crane wings, I bless you
and all you wish to be blessed
I give you ten years from my life
I will give you my firstborn if you ask for her
I had a dress woven from winter clouds for you
so we shall remain
on our respective hilltops
don’t make me climb
don’t let me fall
I don’t know about bridges

And I know I am in mortal danger
when the Book of Longing smells of you
and I know you are in mortal danger
because I did let go of the hollies
and only the Book of Longing is here.

I know you would never enslave me
so do not let me
enslave myself.





Some Notes:

the Book of Longing is a collection of Leonard Cohen’s poetry; and my favourite book.

Holly has tiny, red, berry-like flowers and extremely sharp leaves.

It was Quentin Crisp who stocked up on henna on the outbreak of WWII. To make sure he could dye her hair red through shortages.

It was Federico Garcia Lorca who –probably- wept for Salvador Dali and was killed by fascists.

It was Leonard Cohen who lived in Hydra with Marianne. He wears bolo ties.

For Tuna

I know you’d agree with me that what is hard nowadays is to find the real.

Real experiences. Real growth. Real healing. Real people. Real relationships. Real emotions. Real loss, real gain.

R.A. Salvatore once wrote "Do keep ever present in your thoughts, my friend, that an illusion can kill you if you believe in it." This does make sense. You know better than anyone else what the illusions did to me. The depth I put in souls shallow. The value I gave to words empty. The excitement I threw myself in after experiences cheap.

And as Salvatore says, the death is real even when it comes through an illusion. Thankfully I am alive and do not recall putting myself in mortal danger for anything real or imaginary; but illusions did hurt me. And the pain is real, too, as you know.
Where the searing pain is real, the recovery must be real as well.
And it is so easy to mistake the illusion of recovery with real recovery, isn’t it? More often than not we think we are cured; but our hearts are at ease only as long the unseen will of life brings back exactly what we know will haunt us until we are driven mad.

So how do we find true healing? That is a mystery.

I know only part of the answer. I know I could never be cured for real time after time without your good company, without your friendship, without your support. Real company. Real friendship. Real support.

In a world of many illusions and disputed truth, your friendship, with its infinite real quality, has been and continues to be a true blessing. We’ve been figuring out what’s real and what is not side by side, like true brothers, for almost four years now. We fought against my devils together. We fought against your devils together.
We stood our ground, we will stand our ground—doesn’t matter what life throws –or refuses to throw- at us. I have full confidence in this. Real confidence.

Happy birthday to you, and many happy returns. The world must turn and look at you if it is wishes to see what a friend should be like. If it wishes to find someone real.

Peril

Oh man. I'm going through the worst post-something depression of my entire life after our musical Harem is over. I've been in my school's theater company for three and a half years now and never have I enjoyed a production this much and developed such a strong emotional bond with everyone involved.

I'd like to share the lyrics for the song I wrote for Harem, "Peril". Değer Turan, the writer of the entire script of the musical kindly asked me to contribute a song. For additional challenge he had me write the lyrics with Aruz, a traditional Turkish court poetry form that's a bit similar to iambic pentameter but concerns itself with the "openness" and "closeness" of syllables in the consecutive lines. Anyways. My humble words were put to music by the superb maestro Koray Demirkapı; and were sung by the delicate Aslı Salihoğlu on stage (and to my impeccable delight, by many other fellow RC Musical Theatre Company members backstage like the many other songs of Harem).

An important note: This song is part of the soon-to-be-copyrighted musical Harem; and while I can only ask anyone to not steal any of my work posted here; snatching this one would have consequences more severe than an angry me. Not that I expect any of the lovely people who bother to read this blog to do something like that.

This is what Firuzan, a girl in the Sultan's harem and a master potion-maker, sings after thinking that she accidentally killed the Shehzade; whose attention she was seeking through a love potion she brewed.

PERIL

For every single member of the RC Musical Theatre Company--may the sweet memories of each other never be in peril.

Mixing up elixir of love and dire poison
This fool of a woman killed her life’s august sun
I must hide my potions or join my dear one
And now my mystery craft is at peril!

I could brew true love and put it in little jars,
No hardship I try red rosebuds and heal scars,
Needed only a dove’s left wing uncover lies.
O but now my precious craft is my peril!

I hope you are in true bliss
I am living in abyss
I was never worth the kiss
I’ve been longing for!

And I hate myself
for causing all this!

You were alpha lion and this heart a gazelle
Jealous (of the) dove you watch in flight of the rose’s smell
I lived with a foul curse only you could dispel
Ah but now my precious craft is your peril!

I hope you are in true bliss
I am living in abyss
I was never worth the kiss
I’ve been longing for!

And I hate myself
for causing all this!

Many Things

There are many things.
In the universe. In my life. In my dreams.
I’d love to tell you about many of them. In fact, I desire so badly to tell you about them that I divide my life in two basic periods: The precious, rare, fastened times when I am telling you about something; and the moments and hours and nights and days and seasons I spend wanting to tell you about them.
I am confident that much of it would be interesting. I’d tell you about my hometown, about my father, about Shakespeare, about the poems I’m yet to write, about my roommates, about how the ivies creep a little bit further up every year on the columns of Gould Hall, about the Japanese garden in Baltalimanı, about my hopes of going to China and Japan, about my travels through Italy, about Transtevere, about transitions and growing pains and about dizziness of the teenage years, about how it’s all going to pass just like a fading jetlag, about New England and about what goes on in my head as I lie in the bed awake and about what goes on in my head as I lie in the bed asleep and many many other things.
I’d love to tell you.
About the universe. About my life. About my dreams.
And not even because I’m a babbler or I’m selfish. I know for a fact that I’m not a babbler to you; and oh dear, if you suggest I’m selfish I might as well rip myself from limb to limb and throw the parts in the Tiber River.
I’m getting carried away. I’d love to tell you about the many wonders and terrors of my life—I’m a good storyteller, I really could make most of them sound like wonders or terrors even though I can never be sure if they qualify.
I’d love to tell you; but I cannot. One thing makes me keep my mouth shut. One single grave fact:
You have nothing you want to tell me about. Nothing at all.
Not that you have nothing. I’m sure you have an awful lot to talk about. Not to me, though.
This sort of a grave fact is of the sort that I first have to notice, then swallow down, then accept silently, then fake being grateful for having noticed and swallowed down and accepted silently; then notice and swallow down and accept silently all over again.
And try not to confuse someone who I wish to tell about things with someone who I think will listen again. For a while.

The Jukebox #2

Alright, there probably are more than a few smarter, more necessary and more urgent things I could do right now; but here I am writing my second Jukebox entry. If you are in a good mood or feel that you are content with your life, you may wish to stay away from this particular set of songs.

DISCLAIMER: I claim no responsibility whatsoever for ruined happinesses and darkened nights that may result from listening to one or more of the songs in the following list.

Meh, of course I'm not (fully, absolutely, Margaret Thatcheresquely)serious. Listen to these songs, I think each and every one is quite amazing.

1) David Gray -- Babylon

"If you want it/come and get it/crying out loud/the love that I was/giving you was/never in doubt"

How can anyone possibly express that particularly exquisite and complex human emotion more simply and accurately?

2) Flight Facilities ft. Giselle -- Crave You

I find most of the lyrics quite obnoxious; but there are some golden ones like Where can I keep you safe as my own/My moment I have you the next you're gone! and in fact this song is here not because of what it says but how it says what it says: A musical triumph.

3) Frank Sinatra -- My Way

A classic, of course. A great song in every way, I know. It's almost cocky of me to think the song needs sharing on my humble blog, I know. But I also know I sometimes need to be reminded just how important doing it and feeling it my way is. Maybe you do, too. Try some of the live versions on youtube for even more of a treat.

4) Franz Ferdinand -- Well That Was Easy

I still wonder how they managed to pull off a beautifully painful song containing both of the following sets of lyrics: "I watched you clean the filth of your phone dial/swallowing the things your fingers picked up/tongue, your tongue/I watched your tongue lick it up/ Eeew!" and "So come, come on come/ Come on, kill me now/ Kill me now, 'cuz I'm leaving you now/ That was easy, how I miss you/ That was easy, I still miss you! That was easy, how I miss you now!"

5) Hans Zimmer&John Powell -- Shifu's Flute

Yes, I am addicted to Hans Zimmer's movie soundtracks and Far-Eastern music. If this simple melody doesn't break your heart and make you long for something(whatever it is), I suspect anything can.

6) Hans Zimmer&John Powell -- Oogway Ascends

Another one from the Kung Fu Panda soundtrack. I often really want to simply ascend and get above and beyond all the pain like Oogway does--mostly right before I feel a mad urge to jump back into the fray and let some more marrow to be drunk out of my soon-to-be-broken bones. Yes, I just alluded to myself.

7) Sakura(Cherry Blossom) -- Japanese Folk Song

Many different versions of this sad song are quite easy to find on youtube; but my favourite rendition is at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AK51LblcEOw&feature=related

8) Spanish-Arabic Fusion Music

Any given piece will do as long as it contains a guitar and an oud. This one just destroys and rebuilds me from 1:30 onwards, though: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pDOGSh9kgyA&feature=related

9) The Mamas and the Papas -- California Dreaming

Sit back and let Cass Elliot take you to California or your California right now.

10)Özkan Uğur -- Olduramadım

Sometimes I wish life made me say "Ambalayeee ambaleyyo oooeeeeyyaaa" and "OLDURAMAADIIIM" a wee bit less often; but oh well, the potentially existent almighty divine being must be having some fun.

Heavy load of Leonard Cohen songs incoming now; you have been warned.

11) Leonard Cohen -- Avalanche

Possibly the most poetic, darkest and most haunting song I ever listened to. Extremely poetically complex, too: I've been listening Cohen's music and this particular song rather extensively for quite some time now; and I don't claim ever being able to get under the infinitely many emotional layers of this song and reach its core meaning.The version you want to listen is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=emP2LkF7WjI

12) Leonard Cohen -- Suzanne

"And you touch her perfect body/with your mind"

Hasn't been my case; but I know there will be at least two people reading this who found one with the perfect mind and the perfect body and can touch that perfect mind but not the perfect body. The two people I am thinking of as I post Suzanne will know themselves as they read this; but I think this song makes sense and evokes yearning universally.

13) Leonard Cohen -- I Can't Forget

Dear friends, the lines "I can't forget/I can't forget/I can't forget but I don't remember what/I can't forget/I can't forget/I can't forget but I don't remember whom" in this song sum up the psychological state I wish and wish and wish and wish and wish to enter. Sadly, the song also contains the lines that sort of summarize the dark(and prominent) side of my present psychological state: "I got out of bed/ I got ready for the struggle/ I smoked a cigarette/ I tightened up my guts/ I said this can't be me, must be my double."

14)EXTRA: Any and all of the songs from the upcoming musical "HAREM" at Robert College of Istanbul. Mr. Demirkapı has done a miraculous, unbelievable, incomparable work with the composition of the music for HAREM. Come and see the show on December 14th(Wednesday) at 3:30 PM or/and December 15th(Thursday)at 7:00 PM or/and December 16th(Friday)at 7:00 PM. Need an invitation? Need more info? Let me know through the comments!

And you do want to see a particular blog writer as the most outrageously effeminate and silly harem eunuch, don't you?

Marrow

I come home every night with my bones broken and my brain crushed in. No blood, no marrow: all drained out of me. No energy, no desire: all taken out of me. No plan, no tactics: all wrecked out of me. Eyeglasses broken, hair ripped off, fingernails pulled off.

I sit and sit and sit and look at the empty page and my pen. I feel every time that I must be doing better, I must’ve done better, I must do better the next time—that is the first feeling. So I pick up the pen and start blackening the page with all sorts of nonsense; because I know you need it. My scribbling and doodling is needed to give you appetite for tomorrow’s meal. I know the raw meat smell of the nonsense I put on paper will awake the beast within you.

After I’ve blackened enough pages and blackened them enough with my crushed-in brain and my broken finger bones, I know I must erase the things what you put on me. I know you want me fresh and new. You desire me to be touched by none before you; and not touched by you before either. It doesn’t matter that you’ve been handling me for the past twenty one thousand years or the past three minutes.

So I reforge: I give it all that I have left to—no, wait, I first enlarge what little amount is left within me to something that I can work with and satisfy you. Then I give all that I have to remaking and purifying the thing I am. It is slow and achy as the bones mend and rejoin. I have to push the pieces of my skull back up with the pink disgusting puddle that was once my brain; and then I have to freeze that puddle, pass an electric current through it and let it defreeze to remake it into my brain.

Immediately after, I take out of my pocket the only thing you ever gave me: A fingerprint. From the little finger of you left hand, of course. It makes me laugh every time that what I am about to do is so similar to Jesus Christ touching water to turn it to wine: I touch your fingerprint to red wine, the most expensive I can afford, and the wine becomes blood. I do this for a while; I need to have enough blood for your thirst tomorrow.

And then I sit and meditate silently and focus and focus to refill my bones with marrow. I know you like the marrow good and juicy. I know it’s your favourite part of the day when after breaking my bones you finally reach the colourless liquid, I know the smell makes you crazy and I know you almost love me when you’re licking up all the delicious fluid.

Regaining the energy and the desire are easy. The knowledge that you desire those of me is enough to make my heart restart beating every night both literally and figuratively.

A plan. Tactics. These often take some effort—a joyful effort, though: Every single thing I reformed and recreated and repaired has been tormenting me to have a new plan and develop new tactics since the moment I brought it back. I just listen to the call as it comes to me; and in no time the domesticated dog that I am turns back into the alpha wolf.

As the sun rises, I quickly pull another pair of glasses from the spare box and put them on. I pour some water on top of my head and smile as I feel the hair growing back out. If everything else has gone well until that point, and it does every night, I become quite confident and it is enough for me to wish my fingernails to grow back for them to.

Just in time, every time. I put on a shirt and pants for the sake of those that cannot see through my clothing like you do and I go out.

I walk around, work the routine; and I look for you even though I know I will never find you until I stop looking and I will then come across you only if you wish to find me. Thank goodness you do. Every day.

When our eyes meet; or rather, when I look at you –because you seem never to look at me until you gaze through my whole existence, because I don’t even have a single vague idea where you eyes are-, I know that it began.

You break every single one of my bones without hitting me. I don’t protest—it is my pleasure to satisfy your appetite for my bones and my pain. Except you like it better when I protest because my protest also feeds your appetite, so I do let out a little scream that is not a fake because it actually does make me a bit sad when you smash my brain without –and by not- thinking a single kind thought of me. You still do not take a single step toward me but I feel pale and weak and I know that all the blood in my body is drained as I see your face become rosy and beautiful. Then you finally reach for me, hold me tight and go for the broken bones. On the verge of passing out, I hear your teeth rattling and my bones cracking and I feel the marrow flowing out slowly. That’s when you go crazy—you suck every single bone, lick it all up, gulp it all down. I feel it strengthens you, I hear your growing pulse until it becomes thunderous to my ears. By the time you are done, I have no energy left, curiously. You have abused me so badly I feel no more desire for you either. So I assume you took the energy and desire too, somewhere along the line.

You rise to leave; but return after the first two steps after every time. Almost as an afterthought, you snatch my heart and take my plan and my tactics as well. Even without a mind, I know you need those to prepare your own offerings to some man or deity I wish I never knew of. In desperation, I manage to break my own eyeglasses, rip my own hair off and pull off my own fingernails every day.

Very shortly after you depart, some kind soul takes me back home. And

I come home every night with my bones broken and my brain crushed in. No blood, no marrow: all drained out of me. No energy, no desire: all taken out of me. No plan, no tactics: all wrecked out of me. Eyeglasses broken, hair ripped off, fingernails pulled off.

I sit and sit and sit and look at the empty page and my pen. I feel every time that I must be doing better, I must’ve done better, I must do better the next time—that is the first feeling.

What You Defied

I could wait for you forever
I could wait for you while
Summerians invented the cuneiform
to record your beauty
while the Egyptians built the pyramids
so that their godly pharaohs
could reach you in the afterlife.
I could wait for you with the Israelites
in Babylon, you could be my Jerusalem.
I could fight with Alexander
I could wait through his dreams
and his fever, you could be my Babylon.
I could wait patiently by Jesus Christ as he rose to you;
and I could wait and wait and wait

(through Rome's burning, through the medieval dark, through the Black Plague, through the Thirteen Colonies, through the Opium War and through the Revolution, through Napoléon Bonaparte and through old Otto van Bismarck)

until after good Prince Franz Ferdinand
died for you.

but
I
won't

because those deciphered the cuneiform
had in your opinion wasted their lives
because you remained silent when they made quarries out of the great pyramids
and you changed in exile, you forgot your Jerusalem
and you had never been to Babylon
and because you had no sin for Jesus Christ to wash away
and (not only you didn't care about any of the things that happened in between at all but also)
you did not even weep for Prince Ferdinand.

I could wait for you forever. The atrocious truth is
I still can; but I really hope now, I finally hope

not
to.

Golden

Having survived two weeks of morbid academic intensity and lack of inspiration, I am now back. I'll greet you with a new poem called "Golden". I don't really know what to make of it, I myself am a stranger to its semi-surrealism.

Golden

Your golden head
within the crowd
around the corner
above the sky
Your golden head
in the dawn
your golden head
in the dusk

Your golden head
dripping honey
smells of orange;
drink for gods
fruit for us
Your golden head
is the dusk
your golden head
is the dawn

Your golden head
it assembles--
dissembles then
into scars
a mane around your neck
a leash around mine
Your golden head
is my dusk
your golden head
is my dawn.

I am alive. I will be back. Soon.

Bravery

I could tell you about brave acts:
The people of France were brave
when they rose and started the revolution.
My roommate was brave when he
asked the girl out, shouting it out loud
in a flag ceremony.
(it is my opinion, though
it is still a brave act
if not performed before the national anthem)
A cherry tree is brave when it blossoms
for no more than a few short days.
The gazelle is brave,
the cheetah is brave too.
Brave were the soldiers,
brave were their mothers
and wives and sons and children
battle after battle;
but
no being in the entire huge universe
has been, is or will be as brave
as the shopkeeper in İzmir
who named his female boutique
"Hippopotamus".

The Jukebox

Right, I promised a song list post; and here it comes. I was inspired to write this after watching Lise Live, my school's freelance-student-bands concert (Lise means high-school in Turkish.) Only a very small number of the thirteen (because I like the number thirteen.) tracks here were heard there for the first time by me, though. One or two were reminded to me in that same concert; and most are the stuff I somehow came across and am listening to on a daily basis for some reason or another nowadays. Some are obvious no-brainers and are possibly known by every single person in an ideal Earth, some might be considered a bit unheard of.

1) Hans Zimmer&Lisa Gerrard -- Now We Are Free (Gladiator soundtrack)

Lisa Gerrard is so cool that she sings in a language of her own invention.

2) Hans Zimmer -- A Small Measure of Peace (The Last Samurai soundtrack)

For when you need a small measure of peace. The entire The Last Samurai sountrack is impeccable, actually, like anything composed by Hans Zimmer pretty much always is.

3) Louis Armstrong -- What A Wonderful World

This is one of the no-brainers I mentioned above. Armstrong almost makes me believe in the wonderfulness of the world, even in the darkest of moods.

4) Harold Melvin & The Bluenotes --If You Don't Know Me By Now

Lise Live made me ashamed of not knowing this one until now.

5) Nilüfer -- Erkekler Ağlamaz

The two girls who sang this at Lise Live could be twin angels for all I care. I'll do a rare thing and give a direct youtube link; because they deserve it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dSzmma22LpQ

6) Franz Ferdinand -- Take Me Out

Liked the band, always did, always will. I love how the song can be read in two different ways (confirmed by the band): It tells the story of a guy who makes that move even though he knows he'll never be able to take the girl out AND describes the inner world of Archduke Franz Ferdinand as he witnesses the death of his beloved life, himself about to die. The event is what started WW1.

7) Ludovico Einaudi -- Farewell to the Past

Ludovico Einaudi is genius. His genius is pure and beautiful and the world probably not be able to turn without it. Just listen the "Dr. Zhivago" soundtrack

9)The Mamas and the Papas -- Make Your Own Kind of Music

The anthem of the non-conformist ıf you ask me. You'll know this and it'll put a smile on your face if you once were a Lost geek.

10) Franz Ferdinand -- Ulysses

Well, I know I already gave you a Franz Ferdinand song that is a no-brainer; but this one has suck a nice kick, makes a bored person say "c'mon let's get high".

11) Sting -- Englishman in New York

I know, I know. But I bet you don't know who this song was written for. Listen to it again and start researching the life and the ideas of Quentin Crisp. You'll be grateful to me.

12) Tea Song of the Xiang River

Type this to youtube. Yes, it goes under the name of "Relaxation Music-Tea Song of the Xiang River" or something. Takes you away from all the stress like a raft on a river.

13) Leonard Cohen -- Do I Have to Dance All Night?

The last one comes from the wise old Canadian hero of mine. Unknown to all except the most ardent (or obsessive, depending on how you look at it) Leonard Cohen fans, this song is actually easy enough to find on youtube. Both studio and live versions are very sweet, do listen to the lyrics.

Good job, me. I hope you'll like some of this stuff, friends, and I am also open to suggestions. Another list next week!

Hello, pals.

Goodness, it's been ten days since I last wrote here. Yes, I'm alive; and no, this will not be a juicy creative post. Just wanted to let you know that I am not killing off the blog.

The sad thing is that I don't really have stuff that I could share on the blog. On Thursday I rewrote 5-6 sentences for eleven pages. And my Advanced Writing teacher did NOT collect our writings because he'd be travelling over the five day break we're having now. It was a true torture, though, the writing. I mean, look at some of the sentences I used(everything in "..." was rewritten for a page): "I hate Advanced Writing daily writings." "My roommates are cool." "Franz Ferdinand was King of Austria." "WRONG--He was just a prince!" (I actually need to venture into Wikipedia to make sure which is true, ay me!) "Balbasaur is not my favourite Pokémon." "Writing heats up specific parts of the brain" "--now this is a very very silly argument." "This is just a very very stupid" "waste of my precious time."

Right, I told you I didn't have a very creative week. But I won't lie to you, I have some stuff that I consider too private for the blog which probably will make their way to the blog next Thursday. They already would have if I wasn't stupid enough to actually turn in my literary-stuff-notebook (now this is a crappy name)to my teacher the week before this. I am yet to get it back for a variety of very very silly reasons.

What else, what else.. Well, the musical isn't far away at all now--actually, six weeks from today is the day we'll have our third and last performance. We only do three nights. (Invite us to your schools, yo!) I am ashamed of myself for starting to truely ponder on what playing an overly-effeminate eunuch (ah, you guys didn't know that, did you? well, most of you were probably already told by me) will do to my reputation at school. (BECAUSE IT IS MY NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME! *spring flavoured cookies for the first 657 people who tell me what this was a reference to in the comments*) I mean, I know it's just a role; and everyone with a handful of brain within the skull would know that. Doesn't change the fact they'll make fun of Kutay and not Şakir the Eunuch. Doesn't change the fact I shouldn't give a damn. You know what, that was why I actually auditioned for and accepted the role of the effeminate eunuch in the first place: To challenge myself, challenge my ego; and challenge those with more bone than brain in their heads. But still, it makes me nervous. I won't be cool playing Şakir in any case. Oh well, when was I? When did I care? Right?

What else, what else..well, I'm sort of an emotional trainwreck nowadays; and I'm desperately trying to put myself on recovery mode. I probably will not be able to; but the incoming increasing workload with the approaching play is a welcome distraction. Everything should be fine in six weeks when I'll virtually have no energy to care for any certain person's affections (Well, maybe except my own loyal self's. You know what I always think? If you ever feel that you ceased loving and respecting yourself, you are walking a terribly wrong path.) and just focus on accepting graceful congratulations and just walking past those who are not as graceful. Six weeks. Last week when I was performing on stage for a Modern Drama project (yes, my lessons are cool.) I realized that I am happiest, purest in terms of emotion, most balanced and most alacritous, and curiously, most seperated from any negative or positive impacts of my ego, when I'm on stage. I expressed the realization to my drama teacher with the words "I've been in love. The stage is better." Every word of it is true. I really hope to spend a lifetime on stage. Sigh.

Anyways, back to my emotional imbalance (well, I don't spend 24 hours a day on stage, do I?) "You don't have to win, you just have to play." as the great Quentin Crisp says. I just have to know -and know for sure and with absolute closure- when the play time is over and be able to pat the other players in the back when admitting failure. For now, I have the faint feeling I should keep playing; and so shall I. Oh my, I am exposing my inner world to the entire world, I who have been attributed the animal "oyster" by a friend who knows me really well! Oh well.

Ah, I'm going on the road in four hours, by the way. I have the Bilbo Baggins-esque feeling of not really wanting to go and being really really excited about the journey. It's a seven-eight hour bus trip down south to a city that has a name with only the last letter different than my hometown to which I returned last night. Isn't that fun?

Right, closing time. This is one of those posts that I have doubts as to how interesting can it be at all to any given person on the planet; but if you did bear with me 'til the end, thanks. Take care, I promise I'll write more often when I return to İstanbul in four days!

P.S: Wait wait wait--I'll probably type a shortish post today when I'm on the road suggesting some songs I heard in the school concert on Thursday. Some true pearls, really. See you soon!

I just CANNOT bring myself to do anything productive--I am constantly distracted. Not in a very positive way either; at least not tonight.

One nice thing was that I noticed I had a total of three(3, hell yeah!) comments comments on the two recent posts. I don't want to sound cynical at all, it encourages one to see someone -does- read what you pour into this virtual space.

Dicle, that comment was very kind of you. I follow your blog with vital interest; and I actually have a couple of words to tell you about the post "Lame". Well, let me complete the advertisement session by giving her blog address: wintryepiphany.blogspot.com

Dear anonymous person who simply posted "pou na 'sai tora, anna" as a comment, cheers. It took me quite a while meddling with Google Translate to give up and google the phrase and realize it is actually a song. Did you mean the Goran Bregovic version? The piece isn't really too easy to find on the internet; and the one Bregovic version I could find online dies before the end, and quite soon after the song -in my humble opinion- actually becomes quite pleasant to listen to.

The third and last comment, also anonymous, asked me to post on this blog a certain piece of poetry I had written about two years ago. I happily oblige. I had entered a writing competition ("Jane Page" is the name of the contest, so chillax, I wasn't asked to put an actual person on the blog, just a poem submitted to the compe--ANYWAYS.) with that piece and had won an honorable mention. It might be the single poem that I actively worked on for weeks; my normal writing process involves a good deal of letting things brew on their own and come back to me when they are "ready". When writing the poem I will post below -which actually is the main reason I am making this entry- I changed and re-changed and re-changed every word, every punctuation mark and every single simple expression 'til I find it the best it could be.

Do I find it perfect? Of course not. I never did--though a year ago I thought it more beautiful than I do now, and two years ago I was astonished by having written it. Shortly, it is quite a valuable little thing to me, so please forgive me for having you spend the time to read it if you don't like it in the end. Here we go.

the Overheard Prayer

THIS PART IS ACTUALLY ONLY A LITTLE LETTER BUT I
WAS TOLD THAT YOU WANTED POEMS NOT POEMS AND LITTLE LETTERS
SO I PUT IT INTO LINES TO MAKE IT LOOK LIKE A POEM
THIS IS THE PRAYER OF SOMEONE
A PRAYER I HAVE OVERHEARD ACTUALLY
THE VERY FIRST ONE I HAVE EVER OVERHEARD
SINCE THE DAYS BEFORE THE PUNCTUATION MARKS AND THE INK AND THE PAPER EXISTED—
SINCE THE DAYS BEFORE THE DESIRES OF THE FLESH OF THE BOSS OF YOUR BANK ACCOUNT
OVERRULED THE EMOTIONAL HUNGER AND THE WIND

Signed:
GOD
THE BIGGEST LIE EVER or
THE ONE WHO LET THERE BE LIGHT)

I know that you had your all-poetic thoughts
about dreams
As for me, I guess I simply fear them.
But I like singing along to them
when I can’t go to sleep.

I know that you’re quite proud of yourself
when we go to sleep
I don’t need a haven though,
I don’t want one.
Yet every night, I join all the others
for a very warm imitation of death.

I know you’re in all these human crowds
to grant everyone company
I could’ve hated you for that
I could’ve denied you—
Only if you were not also
in the solitude of rain.

Yes, I know that you weren’t so sure
when you were making love
I know you too, in those darkest nights,
all alone and cold, in your bed of stars and straw
fear that day they will tell you
that all your beloved ones are now dead.
Don’t worry, though, I know you were crying when you
Destined them –us- to death.

And I know why you clouded the skies
But you didn’t hide the stars away.
I know that you didn’t want all these
Lonely little poet souls to die
They always left the last word
To you, after all.
So I thank you,

Kutay.

***

Gosh, I don't think I even like this thing anymore.

This'll be a short post. GOOD NEWS:

I have officially started writing my FIRST THEATRE PLAY.

Below are two little teasers. One is the very beginning of the play and is mostly set description; and the other is the beginning of a later scene with a few sentences the main character utters. Nothing too exciting; but wanted to toss those in--I really do feel excited about this thing.

1

Curtains closed. Very dim lighting. A man lying on a groundbed, sound asleep, IN FRONT OF the curtain.

Two NINJA enter. Blades drawn, they approach the sleeping man. When the NINJA are only a couple of steps away from the man, one stumbles and the sleeping man wakes up. Surprised and panicked, he reaches for his blade lying next to him; but the NINJA reach and kill him before he can rise and defend himself. They keep brutally stabbing the body for a little while even after the man is obviously dead; and then leave.

Curtains rise, lights on. The body of the murdered man is still lying on stage. Behind, a formal council. DAIMYO MIURA sits on an elaborate throne. There are two man to his left and right each, sitting on flat pillows and forming a slight crescent with DAIMYO MIURA at the very center. All four are men of dignity and importance. Behind those, standing, are a weeping woman, a boy no older than thirteen; and two other, younger men. It is obvious from their clothing and stance that these two also of noble birth and importance.

2

TAKESHI is sitting cross-legged, apparently deep in thought. He is wearing full armor and hit katana lies on his lap. Suddenly, three men enter from different sides and attack TAKESHI. After a short fighting sequence, they are defeated by the samurai, who is not breathing heavily but is uninjured. There must be blood on TAKESHI's blade. Just as he lifts his blade, lights come ON.

TAKESHI. (Inspecting the blood on his blade calmly) So...easy. To kill. To die. Blood; warm and alive and untouched--so easily taken out of the vein, so fast to dry and cool. From life, to utter lifelessness, within minutes.

And yet, I look at the blood I've spilled, I watch my opponents die before me; I feel...nothing.

***

Hopefully much more to come. Enjoy your week--I surely am enjoying mine!

Thursday Night Pandemonium

I am absolutely in love with the world right now: I haven’t put a single letter down for Advanced Writing since last Friday. Want to guess what day this is?

Yup. Thursday. That means I have to turn in fourteen pages of writing tomorrow. I had done four pages for some Advanced Writing Project that I can put in, which leaves me with, yes, you know it too, ten pages to write tonight!

Having to do ten pages in a total of seven hours and eleven minutes (lights go off at eleven PM at the boys’ dorm) would be an abysmal task even if I knew what to write. I could write the same word for ten pages or copy down bits and pieces from the book I am currently reading (“Collected Plays of Neil Simon” —it probably makes me sound more sophisticated than I actually am.) or write down SAT words and their definitions. Except I’m not in the mood for such utterly dull activities. I actually really want to do something creative at the moment. I could…try to write a story; but I am out of ideas. I could start the play I’ve been wanting to write for a long time (and it sure will make me the next Neil Simon, baby. hell yeah.) except I don’t know what to write about. Not precisely. I kind of want to tell the tale of a samurai in search of the perfect #insert something here#. Option two is a very modern piece on the concept of “difference” –as in, different cultures, lifestyles, varying perspectives of the same world we are living on, that sort of stuff- and/or “indifference”-hello, high-school teenage society!- . I like the samurai idea because I instantly buy the honour-bound-noble-warrior-looking-for-perfection idea; and I would find it quite amazing to explore how far a man could go for honour and what exactly is “perfection” for each of us. No, I won’t tell you what my visualisation of perfect is at this point in time. *pushes something out of his mind*

Ahem. Anyways. The modern piece, especially one about the way young people are forcing themselves on a path to indifference and lack of originality would also be nice to work on, simply because, it’d tell what I see around myself all the time. I could potentially take a degree of pleasure if I staged the play (which will, by the way, absolutely happen if I ever write any play in my high-school career; very possibly on second semester this year if I can start writing soon.) —kind of like a slap to some members of the crowd I’m living within.

Oh my, I sound so harsh. On second thought, I’m not sure about the pleasure I mentioned above. Nah, I wouldn’t like that. My ego doesn’t work that way—I do not favour difference in thought and spirit and preference because I necessarily find “different” on a higher pedestal than “ordinary”: One would definitely notice a different voice amongst an otherwise univocal chorus. If that one different voice is a bad one, though, the fact that it’s not like the others doesn’t make you like it, does it?

Though I must say that if it’s a voice different from the others (or at least you hear it so) and if it’s a beautiful voice, too, then very bad stuff happens. To you.

Anyways, I’ve no idea why any of the stuff I wrote in the past three pages would interest you, friends, so I’m finishing this entry here. One thing is certain: I’m not starting to write a play whatsoever tonight.

P.S: Leonard Cohen. Magnificent poet, incomparable song-writer. Please do read his poems and listen to his songs if you haven’t done before, people, though it’s unlikely that you haven’t if you are a person I converse with on a regular basis. Start with reading “A Thousand Kisses Deep” and listening to “Dance Me to the End of Love” (Live in London version) please. His new album will be released on the 31st of January, so I’m overjoyed.

P.S 2: Someone from Russia follows my blog. I do not recall any active friendship with someone living in Russia; but seeing hits from Russia every time I succumb to the desire and check my blog visit counter gives me a huge smile. I don’t know who you are, but thank you, my друг!

I think this one needs no explanation.

Everything Inside

Everything inside me
heart, soul, blood, insestines and all
yearn to reach out to you, they fight to go to you
they rip their way outside me but they fall
and become the first lines of this poem.

My brain is unsure whether to protest or not;
there is just not enough space within my skull for it
and so much of you that it actually
loves sharing the tiny space with.

I am learned in biology, you see--
I know if one can stretch all the nerve cells in his body
end to end, he can touch the moon and then back Earth.
My nerve cells are all in the process of
unfurling and moving out and connecting
so that they can go out and find you in the night
and touch your soft moonlit skin

Roses

Alright, this is the last daily writing of the week. I mostly wrote an abridged version of “Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe over and over again for my daily writing this week because copying a monologue or short script for a number of times is a great way of memorizing the said piece. Now, I performed “Tell-Tale Heart” for my Storytelling Project in Modern Drama class. The performance went great; and do read the story if you haven’t already. I might put on the cut and simplified (at least in terms of vocabulary so that our audience consisting of preps could understand the thing) version on this blog in the coming days.

The most logical thing for me to do right now is to write the first draft of the strong response essay that I have to turn in unbelievably soon and have it count as my daily writing. Shall I do it? Of course not. I’ll do it later.

I’ve been neglecting the blog for quite some time now, so I’m writing a blog-specific piece. What is it about? I have no idea what I want to write about, so please bear with the indecent amount of randomness this post will probably present you with, dear readers.

I am, as usual, quite busy nowadays. Some of the things that currently eat away my time include rehearsals for the upcoming school musical (no spoilers here; but my part is quite outrageous—I would tell you more about it; but do come and see it on December. No problem if you aren’t an RC student.), Model UN, History Club, our English literary magazine “Kaleidoscope” (contact for your copy. Fardolf, that is almost entirely directed to you.), prefect duties in the boys’ residence, Atatürk commemoration day rehearsals. Ah, and school. I almost wrote “the inconvenient little thing called school”; but school isn’t really too much of that dull, inconvenient thing that’s been shadowing the joys of my extracurricular activities for the past couple of years in varying degrees. Freshman year was the worst: Eight hours of science and five hours of the most disgusting sort of math I’ve ever known all but taken away all the happiness theatre acting, with which I was newly meeting, gave me.

Of course it’d be a lie if I said I’m at all far away from being an acquaintance with acting now; but I’m getting to like it more and more every day; and thanks to all the beautiful things on this world, it seems to be taking a liking in me. I am almost sure that a life of theatre, or at least to pursuit for a life in theatre, is my calling. This increasing sense of resolution is a very sweet thing. It does give me a weird sort of potent energy. I couldn’t feel less tired.

My Advanced Writing teacher kind of caught me off guard this week when he returned the folder with my daily writings in it. One of the short essays within was titles “The Joys of My Crowded Life”. I had basically written about how overscheduled I am after my old P.E. teacher said to me “Too much goin’ on. Slow down, man. Slow down.” after seeing me running somewhere in a hurry for possibly the 23095825th time. My Advanced Writing teacher apparently read this essay (along with pretty much all the others, which was a fiercely impressive action—credit where it’s due.); and near the paragraph containing the quotation from the P.E. teacher, he wrote “Roses, man, roses.” I asked him what he meant by that today. He said “Well, try to stop and smell the roses.” I said that that was what my life is about, it’s just that the rose garden I am wandering in is relatively huge.

He then said: “Ah, I also meant to say, “Fall in love.” You can go around all day that way and don’t need any sleep at all.”

Been there, done that. He’s actually right. Being in love is great while you’re in the process of being in love; but my own humble experience resulted in nothing but severe heartache, seemingly endless distress, a lasting grudge and disappointment in myself. A bitter cocktail, terribly hard to swallow down. What’s worse is that the taste it left took a horribly long time to go away. It eventually did, though. Quite some time ago.

Roses, man, roses. The words haunt me. Do I feel the symptoms of being in the best rose garden of all again? I don’t know. I wouldn’t tell you if I did, folks. It would be anti-climactic, wouldn’t it?

Have fun, guys. I’ll write more soon.

Hi folks,

Tons of stuff going on; and I don't really have time for fruitful creativity nowadays(I know, I know, pitiful.). I have been giving my Advanced Writing teacher papers with SAT words written on them for my weekly writings, so I don't really have any new good stuff. I do, however, want to keep this blog alive. Below is another old poem, I hope you like it. I'll be back with more creative stuff, more fun, more teenage pondering on the meaning of life(and more brackets)soon.

(Ah, the last line needs clarification: I wrote this poem around the time I played God (yeah, the one.)in a theater production at school.)

Some Blabbering Around About the Almighty HEADACHE

1

You are the pulse
of my head of bold iron
The pain, the suffering
of my endurance of glass.

2

You are the mighty storm
The gaze of Odin, harsh
In your dealings with me
frequently beheading my inner self.

3

You’re dizziness of functions,
And the dance of French verbs,
the womb’s fear,
the muscle’s death.

4

Never before someone
Had hugged me so tight


5

You’re my own eyebrows
piercing the skull
eating off the brain
drinking up the blood.

6

You’re the weight and price
Of a billion spotlights
The disgraceful smile
Of a teenager who “gods”.

Elephant Graveyard

Twenty minutes. Nineteen. Eighteen. Soon the last bell of the week will ring, I'll rise from my purple armchair -this is a free period-, go to Boys' Dorm and change. I'll stuff dirty clothes, socks, underwear and sheets into my suitcase, pack my laptop and get on the midibus that'll take me to Harem Bus Station on the Anatolian side. A bus ride from there, a short walk to mom's work. Then we'll get in the car, she'll ride for fifteen minutes; and I'll be home.

The journey ahead of me, though tiresome even to put on paper, makes me happy. Not "cheerful" happy though. There is no trace of the strong, impulsive, joyous energy that the mere motion of going home usually gives me.

I haven't been home for almost two weeks now. My dorm bed sheets aren't clean anymore. I wore my last clean shirt today. I am running out of socks and underwear. These, while not too deadly problems -thank goodness for washing machines-; are reflecting my own spiritual and emotional condition with great precision: I feel tired and worn and..expiring. My eyes have dul lsemicircles of purple below them, my body is tired after running from one class to another to musical rehearsals to Model UN to prep study halls to a mandatory party last night (I am serious, it is one of the downsides of being a dorm prefect.); and not getting enough sleep or adequate nutrition at all. I feel mentally slowed down, generally unexcited and passive (which does shock me as I am not-so-slightly overenthusiastic normally). Hints of severe migrene headaches have come and gone for days. I'm constantly on the edge of getting ill, holding to whatever strength and health I had left with pure, desperate willpower. I am tired, tired, tired; and as I wrote once before, "bones of my rues ache".

***


I am home now; after a rainy, gray and tranquil journey. I ate my mother's food, I rested in my room. (I almost feel like mentioning I drank good Argentinian wine just for the sake of sounding sophisticated and cool but---whoops, I didn't just do that.)I am still tired and my mind is still very much blurred; but I am in my sanctuary now. I can let go an peacefully get sick. Just the way I like it.

I am home now. I am happy. Not "cheerful" happy, though. Happy like a very, very old elephant who after leaving his herd finally reached the elephant graveyard. Happy amongst the bones and spirits of his ancestors. Conclusively happy.

"Faceless Colossi" and "Khaemwaset", 1

While thinking about what to write for my daily assignment today, I read a Facebook message from someone who is following this blow, in which she expressed interest in learning why the blog is called "Faceless Colossi" and why I picked the nickname Khaemwaset. (Ah, sir, if you read this, check out facelesscolossi.blogspot.com)

Now now. As some of my readers may know, I have a rather extensive interest in ancient societies: Their respective cultures, histories, artistic creations are all sources of true wonder to me. In my poems, for instance, I really like referencing ancient events(biblical, folk or legendary, doesn't really matter) and people(kings, heroes, prophets..). The name Khaemwaset is such a reference. "Colossi", as you most probably understood, is the plural of the word "Colossus", gigantic human statues built by Ancient Egyptians. (The Colossus of Rhodes, sadly, almost certainly never existed.My apologies, Greece.) I will explain why I added the adjective "Faceless" shortly; but all things in good order. Let's go.

I've always had an irrational fascination with the concept of a colossus. A huge, potentially everlasting statue of the "vigilant man" is almost a defiance of Time which will claim us all; but more importantly, it is a gigantic lament to the undeniable, undefiable human mortality. Depicting the mortal man so very hugely, it is almost like the Egyptians wanted to prove that though generations of men and women will come and go, the Human Being will always remain on Earth.

Another thing I want to point out is that most Egyptian colossi are erected near temples and other sacred areas, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing; but always calm, commanding and very protective. I cannot help but think what they were intended to protect, to safekeep. Which one of us can know what secrets have been discovered by, and lost after the departure of the makers of the colossi? So maybe the colossi did really succeed in their duty.

But the sands of time and of the desert reclaimed the faces of most of the colossi: They have no eyes, no noses, no mouths, no wrinkles, no sneers, no smiles... It makes me wonder what each colossal face looked like.

I think the facelessness of the colossi take them away from being just simply huge respresentations of some specific people but enhance their symbolism of Man and its tenacity and longevity in general. Each one of our faces can be put in a colossus' body, each of us stand vigilant and proud and protect mysteries of some sorts in our own right.

But in the end, time and the desert will erase all our faces. The body, though, will remain, with its mighty posture and timeless presence.

All our ancestors are Faceless Colossi. We shall all become; and actually are in the process of becoming, Faceless Colossi as well.

Hence the name Faceless Colossi. It wasn't really aimed to be exotic, intellectually ambiguous or riddling at all. The name was meant to reflect..us.




PS: I pretty much filled three notebook pages now, so I will tell you of Khaemwaset in a future entry, most probably in the next one. Down below are some links to Egyptian colossi photos.

http://uk.memphistours.com/Egypt/files/large/120498125_Colossi%20of%20Memnon,%20Luxor,%20Egypt.jpg

http://www.myartprints.com/kunst/egyptian/colossi_memnon_statues_amenho_hi.jpg

(Both belong to the twin colossi of Memnon, there aren't too many colossi left, frankly.)

http://www.oceanlight.com/stock-photo/ramesseum-image-02586-607539.jpg

("Headless" colossi. ^^ )

An Abundance of Brackets

Dear Sir,

You cannot even imagine how horribly tired I feel right now; physically, mentally and emotionally (that last one sounded very teenage-y -which is quite accurate when you think about it- and girly -which is quite sexist, biased and stupid when you think about it).

Before I go on, I must clarify that I am fully in control of my excessive ( ) usage. I like drifting off topic in writings; and the brackets -or whatever they are called- present a perfect method and excuse for that purpose. I doubt you really will ponder on my use of ( and ) anyways I don't really expect you to read this in detail; but my blog readers may find it interesting. So readers, do not run to the ) as soon as you see a ( of mine, there might be nice stuff inside. There might even be funny stuff inside. Brackets do give me comedic inspiration at times. Brackets are good. Funny is good.

And yup, I don't really need ( ) to drift off and droll on.

Now, why am I tired, that was the topic. Since I already have filled my first page(which is significantly smaller than the A4 size), I'll answer the question in three to-the-point, methodical parts.

1) I am tired emotionally because it's autumn; because while the barber did quite a fine job I do miss my mane; and because I felt a bit lonely today and because I probably really need a girlfriend. (Hit me up, girls!) (Wait, am I really that desperate?) (Ssh, I told them I say funny things in brackets!)

(Still, pitiful. They didn't really have to hear ab---

Sorry, my alter ego Brackets apparently got the control for a tad. No, girls, don't hit me up, I'm totally waiting for The One (ugh.). Now now, because my second page is almost already full as well [I know, I know, it's weird. The notebook I use right now has a left border line that's almost three fingers' width into the page, so the writing space is beautifully little. Mhm, I'm not using standard brackets anymore, it's too dangerous.] I'll leave #3, "Physically" to another night [the reason I actually started this piece was to tell mainly about it, though. Sigh.] and list some key concepts for #2, "Mentally": School, homework, number of sleep hours<8, SAT stress AND YES THE BLOODY PAGE IS FULL!

Hello again,

A correction first: My teacher apparently -did- collect writings that weren't in notebooks but were typed or handwritten on seperate sheets of paper last Friday. Many people in class received their writings back with comments like "6 pages?" "4 pages?" "? pages", which gives me hope. My teacher says he's also been point-reading some of them and will continue to do so on a random, occasional basis.

I'll keep on with the blog.

This week, though, we turned in the notebooks as well; and something tells me I'm not getting my tensomething pages of writing back soon. No worries. I'm sharing a poem tonight--most people who're likely to read this blog are also familiar with the poems I write; but this is one was shared with the rest of the world only once, in an auditorium with classmates and a few teachers in it; and should be new to all of you. (And now I started talking to imaginary readers, bonanza.)

THE TRAGEDY OF PORNSTARS

The tragedy of pornstars
is not at all that they sell their bodies
-we all subtly sell our bodies
our sweat and our souls, our principles
for the raw desires of this world-
It is that once the viewer reaches his orgasm
and the testesterone's subdued, movies are quickly closed
and not ever watched until the end,
the work and the sacrifice of the pornstar
never fully appreciated by the satiated men.




Have a good night, friends.

Welcome, traveller.

I'd like to talk about why I am creating "Faceless Colossi" first.

I like reading and writing. I love myself some rainsong, hot beverage and a good book like most of my friends do. I like creating compilations of words that will hopefully be counted as poems, short stories or literary essays by those who read them. I must admit I also like it very much when someone puts a variation of the adjective "good" before "poem" or "story" or "essay" when he or she (preferably she, to be fully frank) is talking about a work of mine.

Is this the main reason why I'm starting this blog? No.

I am taking an Advanced Writing course this year; and my teacher requires each student to do two pages of writing every single day. In his opinion, it "heats up certain parts of the brain". Possibly because he deemed that benefit enough on its own, he so far showed no intention of collecting, reading and commenting on what we write. I don't really blame him, though. Actually reading fourteen pages a week for each of the twenty-one students in his class should definitely be harder than assigning such quantity of writing and just doing a weekly page count every Friday.

So after some deliberation on how can I make fivehundredsomething pages I am going to be writing on random stuff in varying forms(though they'll mostly be short essays reminiscent of your usual blog post); I decided to share it with others on the internet. I came to that decision pretty easily because I had wanted to write a blog in the past; but I haven't had the incentive for continuous, persistent writing.

Now I have a whip on my back, yay.

I was going to tell you why I picked the blog name "Faceless Colossi" and the nickname "Khaemwaset"; but I have one line left before I'm done with today's two pages, so that story will wait for another night.

Please enjoy! The faceless colossi greet you!