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.