Consider the scene
at some chique restaurant
where I sit demure
and play along
for once
My parents utterly happy
that I have given in
to what they believe to be commonsense
and what I know to be
failed attempts
to
connect
a thousand and one times
I have spoken the speak
a thousand and one times
I have acted the act
over there.
over here, now, a thousand and one nights
I shall give in
a thousand and one nights
I shall erase
a thousand and one nights I shall
betray
me-mo-ry
Friday, December 29, 2006
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Istanbul Latitudes
It is a little known fact
that
Istanbul
is first a trope
then a city
One can write a set of vilanelles
as a late-
comer to this art of
subterfuge
Pall-Mall, Chiado, Vienna
these are all latitudes
to Istanbul:
the place of forgotten births
that
Istanbul
is first a trope
then a city
One can write a set of vilanelles
as a late-
comer to this art of
subterfuge
Pall-Mall, Chiado, Vienna
these are all latitudes
to Istanbul:
the place of forgotten births
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A Learned Trick
This is how you disappear from the face of the earth
You don’t stay at a place for more than one week
That’s how noone can know
Where you are at one given point of time
Except for those you choose to tell
...
That’s how you kill yourself off off the story
You don’t stay at a place for more than one week
That’s how noone can know
Where you are at one given point of time
Except for those you choose to tell
...
That’s how you kill yourself off off the story
Monday, November 13, 2006
The Chance Meeting
The Chance Meeting
After years of lines have paled
what we had at once recognized
in each other's faces
on that fatal October day
of fundamental misunderstandings
you should see me
wearing that black leather jacket
once again,
and that scarf of the colour of fire
and feel disoriented for a second
then come sit across from me
pleased to find me converted to Nabokov
and tell me about your latest poem
to which one day I might write the annotation
and I will tell you how I
the intrepid traveller, travelled on for our sake
and share with you the horror stories
of which you had had a glimpse
once on a visit, that had left you cold and looking for other pastures.
Toasting your success and my failed defection
we shall drink our afternoon tea
If only
After years of lines have paled
what we had at once recognized
in each other's faces
on that fatal October day
of fundamental misunderstandings
you should see me
wearing that black leather jacket
once again,
and that scarf of the colour of fire
and feel disoriented for a second
then come sit across from me
pleased to find me converted to Nabokov
and tell me about your latest poem
to which one day I might write the annotation
and I will tell you how I
the intrepid traveller, travelled on for our sake
and share with you the horror stories
of which you had had a glimpse
once on a visit, that had left you cold and looking for other pastures.
Toasting your success and my failed defection
we shall drink our afternoon tea
If only
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Narrative and Identity
Instead of a poem
here's a reference to your pitless bottom,
spurred on by a
compulsion for compassion
I was advising my friends the whole night long
compassion for the German,
compassion for the English,
compassion for the American
compassion for the ones who
are ridiculed in absentia
and before I discuss this with myself
critically and
come to the conclusion that
compassion breeds injustice
I shall throw the whole thing
to the pitless bottom
of an Italian restaurant in deep Teuton country.
here's a reference to your pitless bottom,
spurred on by a
compulsion for compassion
I was advising my friends the whole night long
compassion for the German,
compassion for the English,
compassion for the American
compassion for the ones who
are ridiculed in absentia
and before I discuss this with myself
critically and
come to the conclusion that
compassion breeds injustice
I shall throw the whole thing
to the pitless bottom
of an Italian restaurant in deep Teuton country.
Monday, October 30, 2006
what I see from my window
The first thing is one of those iron crane-cum-tower Zeugs that have transmitters on them, for cellphones, no doubt. It rises from the midst of a now orange-red-green-brown looking wood. On its right, I see a cluster of German-forest type houses, which could well be B and B's (we once went past one). On the left, hidden behind the now flimsily clad trees are three Hochhaeuser, which could well be student accomodation. Then, if we move towards my window, is the Schwanteich, the orange-yellow-red-green dance continuing there as well. Then come the houses across from the street, and on die Ecke is not your Pakistani newsagents, but the Pamukkale Döner joint. It is open 24/7, I saw another happy Teuton leave it with a döner in his hand just now. Underneath us is the district's DVD place, so there's always Betrieb here, cars coming in and parking. Yesterday on the three occasions that I heard some noise coming from outside, they were all Turkish, unbroken with German-- except for when Nikola came to tea.
This is Wiesecker Weg 1, Giessen
This is Wiesecker Weg 1, Giessen
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Condonances
We are here
to please
pleased each time
that we please
despite the appease-
ment we hardly ever cease
to try to please
How sweet
and sour to see
the pleased
expression where one
has ceased
to hope to please
Pleased
to please
Once more the old demon
has creased
their foreheads and the sides of our
cheeks
Once more teased
into going on with the impossible task
to please,
To please,
Without cease.
(Stockholm, Oct. 2006)
to please
pleased each time
that we please
despite the appease-
ment we hardly ever cease
to try to please
How sweet
and sour to see
the pleased
expression where one
has ceased
to hope to please
Pleased
to please
Once more the old demon
has creased
their foreheads and the sides of our
cheeks
Once more teased
into going on with the impossible task
to please,
To please,
Without cease.
(Stockholm, Oct. 2006)
Beyond the Pale
Contemplating on the huge
gaping hole of distrust and misgiving
my unwilling native scout's mouth transformed into when I
told him I'd ford the river
"Munch", whispered Shiva in my ear
that goddess of self-destruction
and partner in my unheard of crime.
(I crossed
without my scout
and met friendly Indians on the way
that directed me to the feast.
beyond the pale,
I could still hear the screams)
24.10.2006
gaping hole of distrust and misgiving
my unwilling native scout's mouth transformed into when I
told him I'd ford the river
"Munch", whispered Shiva in my ear
that goddess of self-destruction
and partner in my unheard of crime.
(I crossed
without my scout
and met friendly Indians on the way
that directed me to the feast.
beyond the pale,
I could still hear the screams)
24.10.2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
Wrong Hands
These are the wrong hands into which,
weapons of individual destruction have fallen
the power to understand
the power to correct
the power to make you crimson with despair
These are wrong hands
that touch the keyboard
that rise in silence
to ask a question
The hands that you
sometimes touch on the steal
these white, small hands
are the wrong hands
weapons of individual destruction have fallen
the power to understand
the power to correct
the power to make you crimson with despair
These are wrong hands
that touch the keyboard
that rise in silence
to ask a question
The hands that you
sometimes touch on the steal
these white, small hands
are the wrong hands
Friday, October 13, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Wales- the back water
Incident at Gwenyd
This is earth:
Peace was never its forte
But to find it, we take a walk
My friend and I and the fish
I’d been served at breakfast. White
houses we’ve passed today, made of stone.
Early in the day, we visited the fort. A
morning wind swept the stone
Pieces crack, fall, turn to earth.
We’re now near houses all painted white
against the long walk
of the rain: trickle trickle. The last of the fish
go under the bridge we’re now on: stone
sturdy, grey. Men in white
overalls in the water, hoping for fish.
Then, we hear sirens, forte
and then an improbable traffic jam appears. The earth
is gyrating as people stop their cars and walk.
The ambulances turn left. The earth
is awake and green. We walk
towards a policeman. ‘Oi’ he shouts, forte
his face is white
like the flesh of the fish
“There’s been an accident” he says, voice of stone.
We change direction, like fish
sensing stiller water elsewhere. The tip tap walk
of the drops on our umbrella; a pianoforte
in tune with the hushed splash of our feet on stone
Drop by drop it ekes out: the smell of earth.
There are no houses now. Just stone
walls in between fields, white
metal arrow signs and one says ‘Forte-’
The rest has been eaten out by rain, friend to earth
They reign in these parts where we walk
by the river, where our kin fish.
My friend makes a dash for the side to fish
for wild strawberries, as I find when I walk
towards her. Her white
hands hand me some, cold as stone
But the warm smile is her forte
Now her cheek is smeared with earth.
We then lift our heads to the sound of the helicopter, white
Against the smoke that’s rising in the West, forte
“God have mercy.” Wet like fish, we stop, stranded on earth.
(Summer 2002, on my trip with Silke)
and there is that chance meeting with a fellow Mainzerin that I simply have to blog, next
This is earth:
Peace was never its forte
But to find it, we take a walk
My friend and I and the fish
I’d been served at breakfast. White
houses we’ve passed today, made of stone.
Early in the day, we visited the fort. A
morning wind swept the stone
Pieces crack, fall, turn to earth.
We’re now near houses all painted white
against the long walk
of the rain: trickle trickle. The last of the fish
go under the bridge we’re now on: stone
sturdy, grey. Men in white
overalls in the water, hoping for fish.
Then, we hear sirens, forte
and then an improbable traffic jam appears. The earth
is gyrating as people stop their cars and walk.
The ambulances turn left. The earth
is awake and green. We walk
towards a policeman. ‘Oi’ he shouts, forte
his face is white
like the flesh of the fish
“There’s been an accident” he says, voice of stone.
We change direction, like fish
sensing stiller water elsewhere. The tip tap walk
of the drops on our umbrella; a pianoforte
in tune with the hushed splash of our feet on stone
Drop by drop it ekes out: the smell of earth.
There are no houses now. Just stone
walls in between fields, white
metal arrow signs and one says ‘Forte-’
The rest has been eaten out by rain, friend to earth
They reign in these parts where we walk
by the river, where our kin fish.
My friend makes a dash for the side to fish
for wild strawberries, as I find when I walk
towards her. Her white
hands hand me some, cold as stone
But the warm smile is her forte
Now her cheek is smeared with earth.
We then lift our heads to the sound of the helicopter, white
Against the smoke that’s rising in the West, forte
“God have mercy.” Wet like fish, we stop, stranded on earth.
(Summer 2002, on my trip with Silke)
and there is that chance meeting with a fellow Mainzerin that I simply have to blog, next
The Moonstone
I have left Hans Castorp on the field of battle and have taken the train to England :-) (and further to the subcontinent)
I find The Moonstone very much to my liking.
The mind goes back to so many years ago when through Leyla Neyzi I had met this very clever girl, who was doing God knows what now, at the time, but what I remember is that she had at some point taught English in Malaysia.
We sat in Akmerkez and talked. She had worked on Wilkie Collins and was so enthusiastic about him, telling me I had to read him. I had made a mental note about it, and I had many lives after that, the mental note getting a bit dusty but still stuck there. And then in class in Heidelberg I listened to someone talk about The Woman in White, the mental note was put in relief once again, and at long last, last month I bought The Moonstone on İstiklal Street, and now here I am reading it.
It is very clever so far. It is a book that is the documentary of its own writing. A bit of Tristam Shandy, not quite as preposterous. There are a lot of self-narration references, so I find myself underlining. I could do worse than have a Victorian paper to my name :-)
I find The Moonstone very much to my liking.
The mind goes back to so many years ago when through Leyla Neyzi I had met this very clever girl, who was doing God knows what now, at the time, but what I remember is that she had at some point taught English in Malaysia.
We sat in Akmerkez and talked. She had worked on Wilkie Collins and was so enthusiastic about him, telling me I had to read him. I had made a mental note about it, and I had many lives after that, the mental note getting a bit dusty but still stuck there. And then in class in Heidelberg I listened to someone talk about The Woman in White, the mental note was put in relief once again, and at long last, last month I bought The Moonstone on İstiklal Street, and now here I am reading it.
It is very clever so far. It is a book that is the documentary of its own writing. A bit of Tristam Shandy, not quite as preposterous. There are a lot of self-narration references, so I find myself underlining. I could do worse than have a Victorian paper to my name :-)
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Kiss the Girls
It was a week's
worth of opened doors
that did me in
one
after
the other
leading all the way
up the benighted staircase
towards the proverbial attic
but after all that knighthood
after all that chivalry
he refused to play
Rochester to my Antoinette
for this is a PoCo creature
that dares not light a fire babe
...
and you prefer to kiss the girls,
you prefer to kiss the girls.
worth of opened doors
that did me in
one
after
the other
leading all the way
up the benighted staircase
towards the proverbial attic
but after all that knighthood
after all that chivalry
he refused to play
Rochester to my Antoinette
for this is a PoCo creature
that dares not light a fire babe
...
and you prefer to kiss the girls,
you prefer to kiss the girls.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Sleeping with Germans
One spring night in Stockholm, I find myself sleeping with two Germans, neither of whom I fancy very much. We are in a little cabin in a boat-house. Above me sleeps a Japanese girl who has one of those thick Europe guidebooks, and is thinking of going to Istanbul as well. Across, in the other bunkbed, are the couple from Düsseldorf.
When I arrived at the boat, I went to check the sanitary facilities.
The 'bathroom' is full of young women who are applying various stuffs to their faces and hands. I check out the loo and then think better about it- resolved to sleep on a full bladder. I wash my face, joining the other girls by the mirror. Before I know it, I am in conversation with one of them, who has a thick German accent. I hold back the information that I am studying in Germany as long as I can, but then it comes out. And when that comes out, of course, my German woes follow suit. Like all her compatriots she looks amazed that I am not having a good time in Germany. I decide not to give her the Germans are such unfeeling b******* banter, and tell her that my problems lie with the language. I tell her I had difficulties in the first few months because noone was willing to speak English to me. She is perplexed. "I never miss an oppurtunity to practice my English", she says to me. It is late in the evening and there is no sense in trying to explain to her that my English presents not an oppurtunity for practice but cause for alarm in Germany.
It turns out we're in the same 'room'. We go in, start to change into night clothes. Then a key turns in the door and in comes a male of the species. It is now my turn to be perplexed. I tell him that this is the ladies' quarter. I had thought myself clever to have found a hostel that does make such distinctions. Then the German girl comes to my side and says that he is her friend, and that she trusts that it won't be a problem?
It's a problem alright. I am on this boat secure in the knowledge that I am not crossing the boundaries I have set up for myself, boundaries that I have been defending relentlessly lately, boundaries that have given others cause for concern and contempt.
"I will be very quiet, you won't notice I'm here" he says very sweetly. The human element. He does look totally harmless. But I am still confused as to how he could be in the ladies quarter, I feel cheated. I could take the issue up with the management if it came to that. Then the German girl explains, she has put down her name for two people, they must have thought the other was also a girl. Some part of me is enraged. (why, why then bother with calling this the ladies quarter, and why not book a room in the mixed section, why why why) The audacity to think that the world will just oblige with the way you see things... of course he is harmless, I can see that, but there has been a covenant, I came here on the grounds that........
But I know perfectly well why this is happening to me. Like I knew perfectly well why last night, for the first time in my life a guy came up to me and asked me to dance with him. Some jolly folk dance, of course, but I know, I know. It's because I came to Stockholm to run away from things, feeling so righteous about the values I had been preaching, the segragation of the sexes, fidelity...
The German girl, maybe, understands the extent of her blunder and tries to normalize things. Tells the guy that I study in Heidelberg. As we all lay in our beds, we sing praises to the town's beautiful hills and then wish each other goodnight. Michael falls into sleep pretty fast and starts to snore just a little. The girl calls out his name. He turns to his side and stops snoring. I am in bed, in my little kerchief round my head. I sleep well despite the full bladder, the river rocking me into wierd dreams. I get up earlier than anyone else for the conference's morning session, pay for the room and leave.
When I arrived at the boat, I went to check the sanitary facilities.
The 'bathroom' is full of young women who are applying various stuffs to their faces and hands. I check out the loo and then think better about it- resolved to sleep on a full bladder. I wash my face, joining the other girls by the mirror. Before I know it, I am in conversation with one of them, who has a thick German accent. I hold back the information that I am studying in Germany as long as I can, but then it comes out. And when that comes out, of course, my German woes follow suit. Like all her compatriots she looks amazed that I am not having a good time in Germany. I decide not to give her the Germans are such unfeeling b******* banter, and tell her that my problems lie with the language. I tell her I had difficulties in the first few months because noone was willing to speak English to me. She is perplexed. "I never miss an oppurtunity to practice my English", she says to me. It is late in the evening and there is no sense in trying to explain to her that my English presents not an oppurtunity for practice but cause for alarm in Germany.
It turns out we're in the same 'room'. We go in, start to change into night clothes. Then a key turns in the door and in comes a male of the species. It is now my turn to be perplexed. I tell him that this is the ladies' quarter. I had thought myself clever to have found a hostel that does make such distinctions. Then the German girl comes to my side and says that he is her friend, and that she trusts that it won't be a problem?
It's a problem alright. I am on this boat secure in the knowledge that I am not crossing the boundaries I have set up for myself, boundaries that I have been defending relentlessly lately, boundaries that have given others cause for concern and contempt.
"I will be very quiet, you won't notice I'm here" he says very sweetly. The human element. He does look totally harmless. But I am still confused as to how he could be in the ladies quarter, I feel cheated. I could take the issue up with the management if it came to that. Then the German girl explains, she has put down her name for two people, they must have thought the other was also a girl. Some part of me is enraged. (why, why then bother with calling this the ladies quarter, and why not book a room in the mixed section, why why why) The audacity to think that the world will just oblige with the way you see things... of course he is harmless, I can see that, but there has been a covenant, I came here on the grounds that........
But I know perfectly well why this is happening to me. Like I knew perfectly well why last night, for the first time in my life a guy came up to me and asked me to dance with him. Some jolly folk dance, of course, but I know, I know. It's because I came to Stockholm to run away from things, feeling so righteous about the values I had been preaching, the segragation of the sexes, fidelity...
The German girl, maybe, understands the extent of her blunder and tries to normalize things. Tells the guy that I study in Heidelberg. As we all lay in our beds, we sing praises to the town's beautiful hills and then wish each other goodnight. Michael falls into sleep pretty fast and starts to snore just a little. The girl calls out his name. He turns to his side and stops snoring. I am in bed, in my little kerchief round my head. I sleep well despite the full bladder, the river rocking me into wierd dreams. I get up earlier than anyone else for the conference's morning session, pay for the room and leave.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
no more partitions
Das hat es im deutschen Kulturleben noch nicht gegeben: Wegen der möglichen Gefahr islamistischer Anschläge hat Kirsten Harms, die Intendantin der Deutschen Oper Berlin, die Inszenierung der Mozart-Oper "Idomeneo" vom Spielplan genommen, die sich neben den anderen großen Weltreligionen auch mit dem Islam auseinander setzt.
Süddeutsche, 26 Sep.
Das hat es im deutschen Kulturleben noch nicht gegeben. Der arme Regisseur sits in his idyllic Austrian home and then receives a phone call that says that his new production might provoke the Islamists.
His brow creases. The who?
The Islamists, you know, the guys in the funny headgear who are seen every night on TV foaming at the mouth, burning some western flag.
Oh, them! Schade, I was hoping to go to the Metz with it at some point.
This is the point where worlds collide, when Fassbinder meets Fatih Akın.
Süddeutsche, 26 Sep.
Das hat es im deutschen Kulturleben noch nicht gegeben. Der arme Regisseur sits in his idyllic Austrian home and then receives a phone call that says that his new production might provoke the Islamists.
His brow creases. The who?
The Islamists, you know, the guys in the funny headgear who are seen every night on TV foaming at the mouth, burning some western flag.
Oh, them! Schade, I was hoping to go to the Metz with it at some point.
This is the point where worlds collide, when Fassbinder meets Fatih Akın.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
the stations of defection
My companion and I step out of the room that has been heated by breaths or rather exhalations of alcohol. It is one of these functions that have been organized in this cocktail infested period called the "fresher's week". The cold and fresh air feels nice in my nostrils and skin. My companion lifts up the lapels of his jacket, smiles at me and says "And have you not considered attending a meeting of the Turkish society?". I first give out my usual laugh. Then I grit my teeth. How to put this eloquently and without sounding bitter. How to explain this excommunicated state of mine. There's no helping it. I start with "I know exactly what kind of people frequent these Turkish societies abroad. I would not be welcome, as you are well aware...." and then the whole drivel comes out. My companion listens to me in silence. By the time we have reached the Radcliffe Camera I realize I am gesticulating and the sore feeling in my throat lets me know I have spoken fast and loudly. Catching the sight of my hand in mid-air, I let it drop, and stop speaking. My companion smiles. "I had never seen someone speak through her teeth before. So the expression is true!". I laugh. That's one thing I do without effort.
I try to trivialize the whole thing and say that the German society needs me a lot more than the Turkish society does. Where would the principles of democracy and representation all go if there were no Turks in the German society?But of course, Germans are the butt of our jokes, this is England after all. We sit in the MCR and try to decipher with our scant vocabulary a column of the Frankfurter Allgeimene. It is a mystery why the MCR subscribes to it and my companion has hatched plans to replace it with the Morning Star. But on we troddle, mispronouncing and misinterpretating what we read to our hearts' content. We ask the odd word to the odd German compadre that walks in the room. They smile and ignore our pleas for knowledge, for they know we are hardly interested in deciphering what the paper wants to say.
It is then, maybe, all this starts, with this unaccounted for laissez-faire, the doggedness of respectability that these Teutons possess.
The way we sit playing Trivial Quiz and every other question is about the Second World War, and they first look indignant, and then dismiss the frivolity of the Brits and laugh along. Their paternal grace, which I shall come to learn. But these are my friends, and I relish this grace, this hugging the world, unaware I will have to reckon with it in the distant future (for it does seems distant- there is an eternity between then and now)
But not so much as I relish the jokes. (that will come later, after weeks of English insubstantiality) Having taken our leave from our German friends, we run towards home under the rain. It gets terribly heavy so we take refuge by the shop-window of Oxfam's at St. Giles street. The most prominently displayed book has the face of Stalin on it. My companion will get it soon, no doubt about that. I tell him I love the rain. He points to my leather coat and says "I would've loved it too, if I had a Gestapo coat on". Further laughter.
I try to trivialize the whole thing and say that the German society needs me a lot more than the Turkish society does. Where would the principles of democracy and representation all go if there were no Turks in the German society?But of course, Germans are the butt of our jokes, this is England after all. We sit in the MCR and try to decipher with our scant vocabulary a column of the Frankfurter Allgeimene. It is a mystery why the MCR subscribes to it and my companion has hatched plans to replace it with the Morning Star. But on we troddle, mispronouncing and misinterpretating what we read to our hearts' content. We ask the odd word to the odd German compadre that walks in the room. They smile and ignore our pleas for knowledge, for they know we are hardly interested in deciphering what the paper wants to say.
It is then, maybe, all this starts, with this unaccounted for laissez-faire, the doggedness of respectability that these Teutons possess.
The way we sit playing Trivial Quiz and every other question is about the Second World War, and they first look indignant, and then dismiss the frivolity of the Brits and laugh along. Their paternal grace, which I shall come to learn. But these are my friends, and I relish this grace, this hugging the world, unaware I will have to reckon with it in the distant future (for it does seems distant- there is an eternity between then and now)
But not so much as I relish the jokes. (that will come later, after weeks of English insubstantiality) Having taken our leave from our German friends, we run towards home under the rain. It gets terribly heavy so we take refuge by the shop-window of Oxfam's at St. Giles street. The most prominently displayed book has the face of Stalin on it. My companion will get it soon, no doubt about that. I tell him I love the rain. He points to my leather coat and says "I would've loved it too, if I had a Gestapo coat on". Further laughter.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
summer threads
-Hidayet Romanları: This topic from the book section of Radikal- and how "the books of conversion- or seeing the light"change according to the social changes of the time.
- Another topic that can be tackled is the comparison between mesnevis and romances.
-Also Partha Chatterjee, describing politics as arising in the space where law does not work-- only when law does not work, is there occasion for politics. Such as the shanty towns being fields of politics par excellence, for they do not abide by the law of the land in the first place, then it is only through politics that they can interact with the state. and a wonderful Turkish word for subaltern: maduniyet
- From Roni Margulies, the iconography of Jewish youth, wonderful contrasting pictures, one, a group of beautiful, happy looking Israeli youths triumphant, muscular, at the time of the victory of 48. Contrasted with a picture by Marc Chagall, the bearded, hunchbacked Jew with a staff and the belongings on his back. Never again, Margulies says, is the motto of Jewish strategist, never again will you see the Jew being oppressed, all you will see is the strong, triumphant.
"This image, which we have got used to since 1948 is the most frequently seen image of the triumphant soldier- next to that of the American one"
- The failure of the modernization project, the abandonment rather. It has been festgestellt that these peoples cannot be "modernized", that they are doomed to reside in their medieval darkness, it's us and them, and there's no way "them" can be like us.
-women- alcohol- and modernism. the bourgeoisie inventing the anti-alcohol movement, so that they workers be more sober to do more work. There's a footnote or even section lurking there for Rhys
Mary Douglas (Constructive Drinking), Catherine Gilbert
Murdock (Domesticating Drink)
-Fikret Mualla, his description of a republican Turkey in Der Querschnitt in July 1928, would've been a good footnote to Pamuk
- Another topic that can be tackled is the comparison between mesnevis and romances.
-Also Partha Chatterjee, describing politics as arising in the space where law does not work-- only when law does not work, is there occasion for politics. Such as the shanty towns being fields of politics par excellence, for they do not abide by the law of the land in the first place, then it is only through politics that they can interact with the state. and a wonderful Turkish word for subaltern: maduniyet
- From Roni Margulies, the iconography of Jewish youth, wonderful contrasting pictures, one, a group of beautiful, happy looking Israeli youths triumphant, muscular, at the time of the victory of 48. Contrasted with a picture by Marc Chagall, the bearded, hunchbacked Jew with a staff and the belongings on his back. Never again, Margulies says, is the motto of Jewish strategist, never again will you see the Jew being oppressed, all you will see is the strong, triumphant.
"This image, which we have got used to since 1948 is the most frequently seen image of the triumphant soldier- next to that of the American one"
- The failure of the modernization project, the abandonment rather. It has been festgestellt that these peoples cannot be "modernized", that they are doomed to reside in their medieval darkness, it's us and them, and there's no way "them" can be like us.
-women- alcohol- and modernism. the bourgeoisie inventing the anti-alcohol movement, so that they workers be more sober to do more work. There's a footnote or even section lurking there for Rhys
Mary Douglas (Constructive Drinking), Catherine Gilbert
Murdock (Domesticating Drink)
-Fikret Mualla, his description of a republican Turkey in Der Querschnitt in July 1928, would've been a good footnote to Pamuk
The Cure
Another "cure" has been brought to a successful end, and many plans hatched by the waters of the Aegean seem so unnecessary once back in my room in Istanbul .
Joachim is dead, Castorp has about a hundred pages more of life, but it is interesting that while I was thinking I should like to read this in German, there Mann is, in the afterword, encouraging the very same- to read it, not necessarily in German, but twice. Hats off to that!
Joachim is dead, Castorp has about a hundred pages more of life, but it is interesting that while I was thinking I should like to read this in German, there Mann is, in the afterword, encouraging the very same- to read it, not necessarily in German, but twice. Hats off to that!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
fire sermon
Fire Sermon
The current’s rhythm is broken; the endless circles of oil
Swirl and change hue towards the sun. The air
Hangs over the grey bridge, undisturbed. The dolphins are de-
parted.
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again.
The water carries empty vessels, beer bottles,
Pairless gloves, umbrella skeletons, pieces of wood
And other testimony of the cold winter. The dolphins are
departed.
And the enemies, the hurrying plunderers in a forgotten city;
Departed, having left their imprint.
By the shores of Byzas I sat down and wept ...
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again,
Feared Symplegades, stand still, for they come not now or soon.
And in front of me in a grey blur I see
The rubble of the domes and deserted battlements.
The current’s rhythm is broken; the endless circles of oil
Swirl and change hue towards the sun. The air
Hangs over the grey bridge, undisturbed. The dolphins are de-
parted.
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again.
The water carries empty vessels, beer bottles,
Pairless gloves, umbrella skeletons, pieces of wood
And other testimony of the cold winter. The dolphins are
departed.
And the enemies, the hurrying plunderers in a forgotten city;
Departed, having left their imprint.
By the shores of Byzas I sat down and wept ...
Feared Symplegades, stand still, till the heroes venture again,
Feared Symplegades, stand still, for they come not now or soon.
And in front of me in a grey blur I see
The rubble of the domes and deserted battlements.
Burial of the Dead
Variation on the ‘Burial of the Dead’
July is the sweetest month, bringing
Poppies to the green vast fields, saluting
Hopes and joy, shaking
The flowers with gentle wind.
Spring kept me calm, making
Promises of coy sunshine, helping
With days getting longer each scented day.
Summer was there, as expected, shining over Notre Dame
With pigeons’ songs; we took a walk by the river,
And stopped to watch the white clouds, over the Pont Neuf
Then moved on, listening.
Il pensait que j’etais Algeriene et ça m’est egal.
In those summer days, at my grandma’s
I’d play with my uncle, he’d throw me into the air
And we’d have heaps of fun. He would bring
Chocolate and clothes. And he would tell
About the river, the workshop.
I heard much of the river, and went home to the city.
Why should I ever endure, why should I try
To take an irretrievable step? Oh mother,
You should say, or guess, for you know too,
The illustrated histories, the small classrooms,
And the parade leaves no cheer, the picnic no joy,
And the colours of flags, the tunes of marches. Still
There is relief in this grey book,
(For it talks of other places as well)
You will see there are other things
Other than these familiar temples
Other than these familiar tunes
There are things you will be happy to know about.
Clementine
Quand tu fermes les yeux
Tu devines
Le merveilleux
‘You told us about the party on board of that ship;
It filled my thoughts day and night’
--And when at last I saw that ship, on the Thames
You were gone, a relic of the past, I did not
Know, who to share it with, whom to show
It was the past and yet in the present
Looking at that ship and wondering
Je voudrais, que tu te rappele...
Monsieur Le Coton, the famous writer,
Has a bad temper, but that doesn’t keep him away from
Going to interviews, the clever man of Asia Minor,
With a never ceasing stutter. Why? they ask him,
Are we in a bad way, where is the shining road?
(For we were told there was one. Or isn’t there?)
Here is the Opera House, the black building
With the grey shutters.
Here’s the Theatre, there the Sports Ground
And here’s the School, and this thing
Which is so colourful, is the Club
Which I’m forbidden to enter. Where is the House?
You should beware
There are a lot of people on your shining road
Yes. If you see Mr. Rector
Tell him I won’t be here for long;
It’s so easy to fly these days.
Ancient city,
When the sunlight shines on the aluminium,
On the roads, cars with diverse drivers,
For in our cars we’re free to choose
We’re free to buy, free to drive, free to consume
We’re all one big brotherhood in supermarkets.
The cues in front of the cashier girls
We let each other be, oh, so gracefully.
With even a ‘You first’ now and then.
‘ ‘They’ have certainly got into their heads.
Otherwise I could swear they were like us,’
‘Oh, Heaven forbid, like you?
Look straight into my eyes and say it again
And show me what you are made of!’
‘Cuando me buscas, no ves nada — nunca — nadie!’
(N. Haliloglu, a life time ago)
July is the sweetest month, bringing
Poppies to the green vast fields, saluting
Hopes and joy, shaking
The flowers with gentle wind.
Spring kept me calm, making
Promises of coy sunshine, helping
With days getting longer each scented day.
Summer was there, as expected, shining over Notre Dame
With pigeons’ songs; we took a walk by the river,
And stopped to watch the white clouds, over the Pont Neuf
Then moved on, listening.
Il pensait que j’etais Algeriene et ça m’est egal.
In those summer days, at my grandma’s
I’d play with my uncle, he’d throw me into the air
And we’d have heaps of fun. He would bring
Chocolate and clothes. And he would tell
About the river, the workshop.
I heard much of the river, and went home to the city.
Why should I ever endure, why should I try
To take an irretrievable step? Oh mother,
You should say, or guess, for you know too,
The illustrated histories, the small classrooms,
And the parade leaves no cheer, the picnic no joy,
And the colours of flags, the tunes of marches. Still
There is relief in this grey book,
(For it talks of other places as well)
You will see there are other things
Other than these familiar temples
Other than these familiar tunes
There are things you will be happy to know about.
Clementine
Quand tu fermes les yeux
Tu devines
Le merveilleux
‘You told us about the party on board of that ship;
It filled my thoughts day and night’
--And when at last I saw that ship, on the Thames
You were gone, a relic of the past, I did not
Know, who to share it with, whom to show
It was the past and yet in the present
Looking at that ship and wondering
Je voudrais, que tu te rappele...
Monsieur Le Coton, the famous writer,
Has a bad temper, but that doesn’t keep him away from
Going to interviews, the clever man of Asia Minor,
With a never ceasing stutter. Why? they ask him,
Are we in a bad way, where is the shining road?
(For we were told there was one. Or isn’t there?)
Here is the Opera House, the black building
With the grey shutters.
Here’s the Theatre, there the Sports Ground
And here’s the School, and this thing
Which is so colourful, is the Club
Which I’m forbidden to enter. Where is the House?
You should beware
There are a lot of people on your shining road
Yes. If you see Mr. Rector
Tell him I won’t be here for long;
It’s so easy to fly these days.
Ancient city,
When the sunlight shines on the aluminium,
On the roads, cars with diverse drivers,
For in our cars we’re free to choose
We’re free to buy, free to drive, free to consume
We’re all one big brotherhood in supermarkets.
The cues in front of the cashier girls
We let each other be, oh, so gracefully.
With even a ‘You first’ now and then.
‘ ‘They’ have certainly got into their heads.
Otherwise I could swear they were like us,’
‘Oh, Heaven forbid, like you?
Look straight into my eyes and say it again
And show me what you are made of!’
‘Cuando me buscas, no ves nada — nunca — nadie!’
(N. Haliloglu, a life time ago)
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
letteral approach II
the letters slanting to the left, no not like my writing at all. This is what happens when I don't want to write, really, but something forces me, to keep myself occupied, and I try out different orthographies, usually, what I imagine to be 'European' orthography. I have some image in my head of what it should look like, who knows whose hand writing it is I am trying to emulate, something I have seen on television? something I observed in a friend? or could it possibly be Dyson's?
at all events, he looks at my 'European' letters scrawled on the paper as sorry excuses for a note and asks me whether it is my handwriting. I smile, happy to see I have disoriented him as well. I tell him yes. He says it doesn't look like my handwriting at all. I scream inside and say "When are you going to recognize the other in me?"
at all events, he looks at my 'European' letters scrawled on the paper as sorry excuses for a note and asks me whether it is my handwriting. I smile, happy to see I have disoriented him as well. I tell him yes. He says it doesn't look like my handwriting at all. I scream inside and say "When are you going to recognize the other in me?"
Monday, August 28, 2006
summer rain- postcolonial creatures
The cool weather and the dark skies brings back memories which have been pushed into a corner in the crowd, which I have not had time to contemplate...
I sit at a crowded table in a Thai restaurant and the smiling (but nice) waiter brings me my diluted ginger tea-- it is in fact just ginger and hot water. The Southafrican by my side is inspired and orders one herself, I tell her to ask them to dilute it from the start. I put some lemon into it, and try to chat up the Anglo-Irish guy on my left, but he's not forthcoming. I see that his attention is fixed on the slanted eye Austrian beauty (surely she has some Oriental ancestry), but she's too far away to speak, it's a very noisy joint. Then the Southafrican and the English guy diagonal from me start talking about a conference in Joberg, and I listen as if all the names should be known to me. I know Joseph Conrad alright, but that's about it. Then the Southafrican lady turns to me once again and asks me if I find it difficult to find halal food in Germany. I whine. The slanted eye Austrian beauty eyes me, I don't know whether to play the good neighbour or the nasty exile. I turn the topic unto the Nünnings, it never fails in a German speaking context. Then the Austrian beauty and I exchange compliments concerning our accents, and with her lovely accent the Southafrican lady joins in. The Austrian beauty blushes a little, it will be sometime yet before she gets used to it, it seems. The Southafrican lady is a professor and wears what looks like a hautecouture skirt. I love. She tries to lift my bag and is appalled at the weight. It's my old laptop inside.
It is infernally cold outside and the hot ginger has opened my sinuses. I imagine what it will be like if I breath that in, and decide to take a taxi rather than find a busstop.
I am a stranger in Cambridge. And I have come so ill-prepared, I don't even have a map of the town. Unheard of in my travelling history. And in the dark it will be triply difficult- finding the salmon-coloured English faculty in the morning was quite an adventure in broad day-light. I missed the talk of the professor from Leeds, is that why he spurns every attempt at conversation I make and turns his head towards the Southafrican professor? I do my Southafrican trick. I tell her I have never met a black Southafrican. I tell her that I have even met someone from Swaziland and he was the blondest guy ever.
Anyway, I am pleased with the company of the Austrian beauty and the Southafrican prof who listens to my old tricks with Ottoman composure. I like her.
All those present, it turns out, will be staying in Cambridge that night. So I pack bags and make a move. First the train into London, and then to what seems to be a longer journey into Bromley.
The Bromley library, or rather the librarian, that's still another story...
I sit at a crowded table in a Thai restaurant and the smiling (but nice) waiter brings me my diluted ginger tea-- it is in fact just ginger and hot water. The Southafrican by my side is inspired and orders one herself, I tell her to ask them to dilute it from the start. I put some lemon into it, and try to chat up the Anglo-Irish guy on my left, but he's not forthcoming. I see that his attention is fixed on the slanted eye Austrian beauty (surely she has some Oriental ancestry), but she's too far away to speak, it's a very noisy joint. Then the Southafrican and the English guy diagonal from me start talking about a conference in Joberg, and I listen as if all the names should be known to me. I know Joseph Conrad alright, but that's about it. Then the Southafrican lady turns to me once again and asks me if I find it difficult to find halal food in Germany. I whine. The slanted eye Austrian beauty eyes me, I don't know whether to play the good neighbour or the nasty exile. I turn the topic unto the Nünnings, it never fails in a German speaking context. Then the Austrian beauty and I exchange compliments concerning our accents, and with her lovely accent the Southafrican lady joins in. The Austrian beauty blushes a little, it will be sometime yet before she gets used to it, it seems. The Southafrican lady is a professor and wears what looks like a hautecouture skirt. I love. She tries to lift my bag and is appalled at the weight. It's my old laptop inside.
It is infernally cold outside and the hot ginger has opened my sinuses. I imagine what it will be like if I breath that in, and decide to take a taxi rather than find a busstop.
I am a stranger in Cambridge. And I have come so ill-prepared, I don't even have a map of the town. Unheard of in my travelling history. And in the dark it will be triply difficult- finding the salmon-coloured English faculty in the morning was quite an adventure in broad day-light. I missed the talk of the professor from Leeds, is that why he spurns every attempt at conversation I make and turns his head towards the Southafrican professor? I do my Southafrican trick. I tell her I have never met a black Southafrican. I tell her that I have even met someone from Swaziland and he was the blondest guy ever.
Anyway, I am pleased with the company of the Austrian beauty and the Southafrican prof who listens to my old tricks with Ottoman composure. I like her.
All those present, it turns out, will be staying in Cambridge that night. So I pack bags and make a move. First the train into London, and then to what seems to be a longer journey into Bromley.
The Bromley library, or rather the librarian, that's still another story...
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Manifesto
After all the news, and an impending incident of me being thrown out of an airplane you look at me with patriarchal benevolence and say, for the nth time, hoping I shall see the light this time, that this won’t work, that if I really love Europe (for you have read right through me) I will have to work on my phenology.
But they’ve been there darling, they’ve been there
You are no traveller in unchartered waters.
But this time, this time I shall rise to the occassion and say that I have heard that all before, that I have spent the last thirty years hearing just that, and from tongues who spoke my tongue, not in conversations through some mutually adopted language.
And there was you, naively, thinking, there might be a flicker of hope
Nought darling, nought
Not for all the rivers and mountains of Europe
But they’ve been there darling, they’ve been there
You are no traveller in unchartered waters.
But this time, this time I shall rise to the occassion and say that I have heard that all before, that I have spent the last thirty years hearing just that, and from tongues who spoke my tongue, not in conversations through some mutually adopted language.
And there was you, naively, thinking, there might be a flicker of hope
Nought darling, nought
Not for all the rivers and mountains of Europe
Friday, August 25, 2006
Yo se
last night as I went to bed, this one scene from the past resurfaced in my brain, very vividly:
I sit with my larger posse in the MCR and in comes she into the kitchen, looking at me coyly, pointing with her finger for me to come and join her in the privacy of the sink, and that infernal detergent smell. All I want to do at that moment is blow her a well placed fist on the nose (repeatedly). But there are guests to be considered, there is a reputation to be a maintained. So I call out to her from where I am sitting with a theatricality I know I can well possess. "Yo se". And I make the Y sound like a J, to let her know I am in the know about many things, that I am not one to remain in the dark for long (but I was, I was, I am, I am). Glen, the eternal American looks at me congratulatingly and then raises his eyebrows "You sounded like a primadonna right then N." I answer with a theatrical bow. And at that moment I feel, yes, this is the most dramatic moment of my life, the self-possession, the Sophia Loren-like, seen it all, done it all, can't hurt me now pose.
I am on top of the world and am prepared for the worst now, the worst. She comes and sits on the edge of Gerald's seat, somone she never even makes conversation with usually. I can see she is sorry for what has happened, but her happiness, her joy overflows all that, and I can see she can endure all in her happiness, even if she should lose me, she said, the only one who she could really talk to.
I look at Tarik, my German friend, who smiles back at me, and at that moment, I decide to defect.
I sit with my larger posse in the MCR and in comes she into the kitchen, looking at me coyly, pointing with her finger for me to come and join her in the privacy of the sink, and that infernal detergent smell. All I want to do at that moment is blow her a well placed fist on the nose (repeatedly). But there are guests to be considered, there is a reputation to be a maintained. So I call out to her from where I am sitting with a theatricality I know I can well possess. "Yo se". And I make the Y sound like a J, to let her know I am in the know about many things, that I am not one to remain in the dark for long (but I was, I was, I am, I am). Glen, the eternal American looks at me congratulatingly and then raises his eyebrows "You sounded like a primadonna right then N." I answer with a theatrical bow. And at that moment I feel, yes, this is the most dramatic moment of my life, the self-possession, the Sophia Loren-like, seen it all, done it all, can't hurt me now pose.
I am on top of the world and am prepared for the worst now, the worst. She comes and sits on the edge of Gerald's seat, somone she never even makes conversation with usually. I can see she is sorry for what has happened, but her happiness, her joy overflows all that, and I can see she can endure all in her happiness, even if she should lose me, she said, the only one who she could really talk to.
I look at Tarik, my German friend, who smiles back at me, and at that moment, I decide to defect.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Isra
tonight on this night of the nightly journey
I ask forgiveness from my brethren
who shall yet teach me
how to celebrate what I love
I ask forgiveness from my brethren
who shall yet teach me
how to celebrate what I love
Thursday, August 10, 2006
taking sides
when they open
the borders
where will you be-ee-ee?
I'll climb the highest tree
to avoid the stampede
(as sung by Black)
the borders
where will you be-ee-ee?
I'll climb the highest tree
to avoid the stampede
(as sung by Black)
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
facts and figures
The opposite side of this coin is that while Israel's hi-tech "surgical strikes" have killed hundreds more civilians than Hizbullah fighters, the Lebanese resistance's low-tech weapons have killed about three times as many Israeli soldiers as civilians.
Guardian, 10th August
Guardian, 10th August
a Moorish enigma
working on the Pamplona paper (Verraeumlichung der Zeit, yes) I remembered, once again, a piece of graffiti I saw in the Catalonian village of La Riba.
On the long-distance-cum-commuter train from Lleida to Barcelona, (after the miles I had crossed just the other night sleeping and the same stretch yesterday morning, this time watching a group of Spanish mountaineers, and a Spanish-cum-English documentary on falconry) the train went into a mountainous region where sudden turns on the route revealed beautiful valleys and small villages. I was working, despite all this, on my paper for Nijmegen, and at one point I lifted my head to read the following words, written in Arabic script, at the train station- which consisted, for all I could see, of white washed walls placed at all the right angles.
Shouf wa Usqut. Watch and Keep Silent.
how despairing of the human spirit this enigma sounds these days of watching children being pulled from under fallen buildings. But at the time, it had felt very patronizing in another way. "Watch this beauty and don't speak a word. Don't turn it into one of your lousy poems"
But maybe it is a warning for today as well. Shouf wa Usqut. Don't turn it into one of your lousy poems.
On the long-distance-cum-commuter train from Lleida to Barcelona, (after the miles I had crossed just the other night sleeping and the same stretch yesterday morning, this time watching a group of Spanish mountaineers, and a Spanish-cum-English documentary on falconry) the train went into a mountainous region where sudden turns on the route revealed beautiful valleys and small villages. I was working, despite all this, on my paper for Nijmegen, and at one point I lifted my head to read the following words, written in Arabic script, at the train station- which consisted, for all I could see, of white washed walls placed at all the right angles.
Shouf wa Usqut. Watch and Keep Silent.
how despairing of the human spirit this enigma sounds these days of watching children being pulled from under fallen buildings. But at the time, it had felt very patronizing in another way. "Watch this beauty and don't speak a word. Don't turn it into one of your lousy poems"
But maybe it is a warning for today as well. Shouf wa Usqut. Don't turn it into one of your lousy poems.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Heart of Europe?
Istanbul, obviously :-)
And now Zizek to prove my point:
"Even racism is now reflexive. Consider the Balkans. They are portrayed in the liberal Western media as a vortex of ethnic passion - a multiculturalist dream turned into a nightmare. The standard reaction of a Slovene (I am one myself) is to say: 'yes, this is how it is in the Balkans, but Slovenia is not part of the Balkans; it is part of Mitteleuropa; the Balkans begin in Croatia or in Bosnia; we Slovenes are the last bulwark of European civilisation against the Balkan madness.' If you ask, 'Where do the Balkans begin?' you will always be told that they begin down there, towards the south-east. For Serbs, they begin in Kosovo or in Bosnia where Serbia is trying to defend civilised Christian Europe against the encroachments of this Other. For the Croats, the Balkans begin in Orthodox, despotic and Byzantine Serbia, against which Croatia safeguards Western democratic values. For many Italians and Austrians, they begin in Slovenia, the Western outpost of the Slavic hordes. For many Germans, Austria is tainted with Balkan corruption and inefficiency; for many Northern Germans, Catholic Bavaria is not free of Balkan contamination. Many arrogant Frenchmen associate Germany with Eastern Balkan brutality - it lacks French finesse. Finally, to some British opponents of the European Union, Continental Europe is a new version of the Turkish Empire with Brussels as the new Istanbul - a voracious despotism threatening British freedom and sovereignty."
And now Zizek to prove my point:
"Even racism is now reflexive. Consider the Balkans. They are portrayed in the liberal Western media as a vortex of ethnic passion - a multiculturalist dream turned into a nightmare. The standard reaction of a Slovene (I am one myself) is to say: 'yes, this is how it is in the Balkans, but Slovenia is not part of the Balkans; it is part of Mitteleuropa; the Balkans begin in Croatia or in Bosnia; we Slovenes are the last bulwark of European civilisation against the Balkan madness.' If you ask, 'Where do the Balkans begin?' you will always be told that they begin down there, towards the south-east. For Serbs, they begin in Kosovo or in Bosnia where Serbia is trying to defend civilised Christian Europe against the encroachments of this Other. For the Croats, the Balkans begin in Orthodox, despotic and Byzantine Serbia, against which Croatia safeguards Western democratic values. For many Italians and Austrians, they begin in Slovenia, the Western outpost of the Slavic hordes. For many Germans, Austria is tainted with Balkan corruption and inefficiency; for many Northern Germans, Catholic Bavaria is not free of Balkan contamination. Many arrogant Frenchmen associate Germany with Eastern Balkan brutality - it lacks French finesse. Finally, to some British opponents of the European Union, Continental Europe is a new version of the Turkish Empire with Brussels as the new Istanbul - a voracious despotism threatening British freedom and sovereignty."
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Failed Defection
I never wanted to go wandering by the Rhein in the first place,
never wanted to listen to Schubert at Schwetzingen
The fairy-tale hills of Heidelberg
never figured in my dreams
I never wanted to speak
to blond heads with round rimmed spectacles
Was never much interested in separating my trash,
nor in saving money or choosing the best health insurance
Respect for machines, I never had
nor for (political) correctness
All I ever wanted
was to loose myself in some dyke in Norfolk
and have friends about me
who would humour
my mimickry, falsity, my laughter
I never wanted to go wandering by the Rhein in the first place
never wanted to dip my toes in its cold cold waters
never wanted to face the facts
ever
never wanted to listen to Schubert at Schwetzingen
The fairy-tale hills of Heidelberg
never figured in my dreams
I never wanted to speak
to blond heads with round rimmed spectacles
Was never much interested in separating my trash,
nor in saving money or choosing the best health insurance
Respect for machines, I never had
nor for (political) correctness
All I ever wanted
was to loose myself in some dyke in Norfolk
and have friends about me
who would humour
my mimickry, falsity, my laughter
I never wanted to go wandering by the Rhein in the first place
never wanted to dip my toes in its cold cold waters
never wanted to face the facts
ever
letteral approach to structuralism I
In the document I am translating at the moment I have just read a sentence that still (dares?) speak of the alphabet revolution as if it were the best thing that could have happened to Turkey, as if it were a Notwendigkeit.
And to think that only a couple of weeks ago I was in the heart of Europe, ridiculing this very act and my co-Europeans finding it appaling that a nation had been turned illiterate overnight.
letters are stores of memory,
you can feel this best in Turkey where there is collective amnesia concerning who we were and what we wanted to be,
for we no longer see the letters that we used to see and with which we expressed our notions of who we are.
Europeans- that would've started with the letter "alif", which looks like an "I", and which is the first letter of Allah as well
letters have memories, and initials more so, initials are intertextual, initials make you think about other words, make you trace other words in the word
initials bind, or make the rift more apparent, so now our task is to consider the implications of "alif"
And to think that only a couple of weeks ago I was in the heart of Europe, ridiculing this very act and my co-Europeans finding it appaling that a nation had been turned illiterate overnight.
letters are stores of memory,
you can feel this best in Turkey where there is collective amnesia concerning who we were and what we wanted to be,
for we no longer see the letters that we used to see and with which we expressed our notions of who we are.
Europeans- that would've started with the letter "alif", which looks like an "I", and which is the first letter of Allah as well
letters have memories, and initials more so, initials are intertextual, initials make you think about other words, make you trace other words in the word
initials bind, or make the rift more apparent, so now our task is to consider the implications of "alif"
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
memory
Memory
The word
standing there, at the end of a sentence
with its plump, motherly m's
and the o that swallows
and were it devoid of all meaning
the letters are still a familiar sight
read and learnt from a by-gone lover:
the 'verbuchstabelichung der Zeit'
The word
standing there, at the end of a sentence
with its plump, motherly m's
and the o that swallows
and were it devoid of all meaning
the letters are still a familiar sight
read and learnt from a by-gone lover:
the 'verbuchstabelichung der Zeit'
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Zauberberg
In search for something 'classical' I started to read what my library offered, in English. Was it Rhys who said that she wanted to read a novel where there are big houses and servants and a family to reckon with. I got such a feeling, and here I am.
So here's Mann:
"Space, rolling and revolving between him and his native heath possessed and wielded the powers we generally ascribe to time."
then we wander how these people come up with terms like "Verzeitlichung des Raums"
So here's Mann:
"Space, rolling and revolving between him and his native heath possessed and wielded the powers we generally ascribe to time."
then we wander how these people come up with terms like "Verzeitlichung des Raums"
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Don't talk to me about Matisse
Don't talk to me about Matisse,
or Dickens, or your beloved Shostakovich
talk to me instead
of bombs that bear notes from little girls,
that splatter into thousand pieces
when they hit targets named
Aisha or Ali.
or Dickens, or your beloved Shostakovich
talk to me instead
of bombs that bear notes from little girls,
that splatter into thousand pieces
when they hit targets named
Aisha or Ali.
Idea for a Novel
An undercover agent sits recuperating in a Sarıyer home, observing the goings on in an ordinary Turkish family, with all its talk of relatives and marriages and newly bought houses. (and even TV series) He is the estranged friend of the daughter of the house, who seems to be settling in nicely after her years abroad. After the observations of the spy (Russia? Middleeast?), through flashbacks we get the story of the daughter of the house, who's recently (?) married and lost her lover, all unbeknownst to her family.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Shahrur
I got Paul's Shahrur book for Zehra and now am loath to give it to her. It is written with such clear Arabic, it even tempts me... if only I had time I could get the Üsküdar girls together and we could have our own tafsir class.
Istiklal Street has changed so much- yet again- it almost looks like Kalverstraat, or maybe like Bodrum now, the white of the buildings pronounced due to the evening lights. At the end of the street we bumped into a Greek classmate of Paul's, who reminded me so much of Zacharoula... I'm building up a yet another very dangerous national streotype; but the constellation was so similar there was no escaping it. Me, the public school boy and the Greek girl :-)
Istiklal Street has changed so much- yet again- it almost looks like Kalverstraat, or maybe like Bodrum now, the white of the buildings pronounced due to the evening lights. At the end of the street we bumped into a Greek classmate of Paul's, who reminded me so much of Zacharoula... I'm building up a yet another very dangerous national streotype; but the constellation was so similar there was no escaping it. Me, the public school boy and the Greek girl :-)
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
and now zur Sache
I, once again, realize that form is everything
Everything (this is after reading a German article)
as Paul Muldoon once pointed out, "It knows"- even when you think you do not know where your writing is going, if you have form, it will take you to the place- maybe not where you want to go, but where it is worth going
is there some inherent advocacy of ritual here, from a pious person who follows certain rituals?
Everything (this is after reading a German article)
as Paul Muldoon once pointed out, "It knows"- even when you think you do not know where your writing is going, if you have form, it will take you to the place- maybe not where you want to go, but where it is worth going
is there some inherent advocacy of ritual here, from a pious person who follows certain rituals?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
instead of a dagger in your stomach
this is how it could be
he talks.
you see a white washed living room with sparse furniture
you see him stroking a cat
you see him look for a word in the puzzle
the kitchen materializes out of nowhere,
with the yellow tables and what you see
dangling from the window is some
village craft you picked up in Kenya
instead of a dagger in your stomach,
this is what can happen
when a man talks,
and it's a beautiful evening
in a third-world, hilled city
and in your mind's eye
you still reach out for that drawer
to hand that other person
the knife.
he talks.
you see a white washed living room with sparse furniture
you see him stroking a cat
you see him look for a word in the puzzle
the kitchen materializes out of nowhere,
with the yellow tables and what you see
dangling from the window is some
village craft you picked up in Kenya
instead of a dagger in your stomach,
this is what can happen
when a man talks,
and it's a beautiful evening
in a third-world, hilled city
and in your mind's eye
you still reach out for that drawer
to hand that other person
the knife.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
home
back in Istanbul with my domestic feuds with mom, this house is teetering on the edge of collapse...
40 years' worth of memorabilia, each as unthrow-away-able as my TLS issues from 2001, or my 97 Berkeley guide to England, so consider the green dress she wore on that picnic in 1978....
I have to make space for Jean Rhys once again in my room, push the Arabic dictionary to the side, the Morocco guide to the left, and possibly throw away the Goldhagen book (but the sweet memory of my huge black bag as my new porsche and sweet m had noticed and i had turned away the head) and whenever shall I start reading Spencer again? Throw away Langland perhaps? The Marlowe volume looks decorative so that'll have to remain. And the books never returned to Irem... now I wonder what she'd think of my German
40 years' worth of memorabilia, each as unthrow-away-able as my TLS issues from 2001, or my 97 Berkeley guide to England, so consider the green dress she wore on that picnic in 1978....
I have to make space for Jean Rhys once again in my room, push the Arabic dictionary to the side, the Morocco guide to the left, and possibly throw away the Goldhagen book (but the sweet memory of my huge black bag as my new porsche and sweet m had noticed and i had turned away the head) and whenever shall I start reading Spencer again? Throw away Langland perhaps? The Marlowe volume looks decorative so that'll have to remain. And the books never returned to Irem... now I wonder what she'd think of my German
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
war rhetoric
all these miles you laid
leading to your beloved people
I'm going to turn them into rubble,
and it shall catch you
oh so unawares
for you had not reckoned,
you had not calculated-with-it
that a subaltern could
and to think
that a word placed here
another ommitted there
would have saved your roads
your monuments, and castles
you had built, oh so carefully
and with fervour
never taking time out
never enjoying the joys of spring
or the lethargy of the summer
but as I push this war machine
towards your battlements
I still fear I'm walking
on the miles that I helped you lay.
leading to your beloved people
I'm going to turn them into rubble,
and it shall catch you
oh so unawares
for you had not reckoned,
you had not calculated-with-it
that a subaltern could
and to think
that a word placed here
another ommitted there
would have saved your roads
your monuments, and castles
you had built, oh so carefully
and with fervour
never taking time out
never enjoying the joys of spring
or the lethargy of the summer
but as I push this war machine
towards your battlements
I still fear I'm walking
on the miles that I helped you lay.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Once More Unto the Breach (Isaac attacks Ishmael once again)
Waiting for the
monsoon with my
excommunicated Indian friend
in this dry, arid land
where -when it takes its fancy- the river runs green
or blue, according to season
and where
people hop on bicycles
to go wandering
to go singing songs
by the campfire
...
the monsoon
has been
threatening for days now
and we sat muted,
dehydrated
severed from
our bottles of bottled water
in
a little piece of India
she points a finger
to all injustice that has been done
in the past
and accuses the world
of being silent
It thunders.
Soon we'll have the rain
monsoon with my
excommunicated Indian friend
in this dry, arid land
where -when it takes its fancy- the river runs green
or blue, according to season
and where
people hop on bicycles
to go wandering
to go singing songs
by the campfire
...
the monsoon
has been
threatening for days now
and we sat muted,
dehydrated
severed from
our bottles of bottled water
in
a little piece of India
she points a finger
to all injustice that has been done
in the past
and accuses the world
of being silent
It thunders.
Soon we'll have the rain
Exorcism
It took no priest to do it.
One Sunday morning, it came slowly
from where the castle stands in the West,
first bringing joy
I was happily singing at the table
not knowing
but then it started to work its way:
first the blood drew from my hands, and then my face
I could feel every nerve and fibre
sighing
as it
oozed out
with one, final convulsion
Now a slight drowsiness remains,
letting dementia,
a baptism of forgetting
to
settle in.
One Sunday morning, it came slowly
from where the castle stands in the West,
first bringing joy
I was happily singing at the table
not knowing
but then it started to work its way:
first the blood drew from my hands, and then my face
I could feel every nerve and fibre
sighing
as it
oozed out
with one, final convulsion
Now a slight drowsiness remains,
letting dementia,
a baptism of forgetting
to
settle in.
Monday, July 10, 2006
March 2006
Oxford
Stoned,
and with a bottle in his hand
he staggers to the busstop
to ask me if I have been waiting for long.
He knows we're headed the same way
from the (college) scarf I am wearing, he says
when prompted.
Hurling his body -almost emaciated
that particular, concave look,
the hair almost Suede- to the seat next to mine,
he takes out a Livy
from some place within his crumpled trousers
and starts to read
sweetly oblivious,
in equal part
to London, the world
and what may chance in between.
Stoned,
and with a bottle in his hand
he staggers to the busstop
to ask me if I have been waiting for long.
He knows we're headed the same way
from the (college) scarf I am wearing, he says
when prompted.
Hurling his body -almost emaciated
that particular, concave look,
the hair almost Suede- to the seat next to mine,
he takes out a Livy
from some place within his crumpled trousers
and starts to read
sweetly oblivious,
in equal part
to London, the world
and what may chance in between.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Flanders
Flanders, oh Flanders
who would've known, or guessed
that you'd be
an afterthought
or even an aftermath
to some incident called
Leuven
a bloody and nervous tick
connected to rape fields
and sheep that won't fit into a rhyme
(and the knee, the knee)
Flanders, oh Flanders
you shall reap
the benefit of fallen soldiers
and women
'the poppies in the underwear'
Flanders, oh Flanders
you have resurrected the dead today
and I shall
abide-by-the-past
conquest and expulsions.
who would've known, or guessed
that you'd be
an afterthought
or even an aftermath
to some incident called
Leuven
a bloody and nervous tick
connected to rape fields
and sheep that won't fit into a rhyme
(and the knee, the knee)
Flanders, oh Flanders
you shall reap
the benefit of fallen soldiers
and women
'the poppies in the underwear'
Flanders, oh Flanders
you have resurrected the dead today
and I shall
abide-by-the-past
conquest and expulsions.
Two Lives
I have been reading Two Lives by Vikram Seth, and just as expected it fits my mood perfectly, and reminds me I have to ask Basil about his grandmother in England.
...The Law Concerning the Overcrowding of German Universities...
Good company while I do this translation, which also has its purposes, it trivializes the whole satanic verses episode, and makes it possible for me to read the Rushdie book.
...The Law Concerning the Overcrowding of German Universities...
Good company while I do this translation, which also has its purposes, it trivializes the whole satanic verses episode, and makes it possible for me to read the Rushdie book.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Bismillah
Look to the East for a change, my cousin said
I did not deign or dare
but she did
and came back with
stories
I dare not share
I did not deign or dare
but she did
and came back with
stories
I dare not share
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