DEAR G

Out of somewhere deep your nerve would appear and disturb you and so many around you. That one time your nerve was out again. Inside your head a lot of treasures. Where, out of all dots and points, could I identify the one that then identified with me. That glass of wine did not belong to you the way it did belong to me. An animal slid out of your embrace. What did you do? You let it go.

-

Dear G, here in Bogazici campus, I am feeling the ease of loneliness in the calmest way. The old buildings, the crooked branches in front of them, and above all - this theatre and this play. I am somewhere in the edges of your city. I can never get to your feeling of being an Istanbulite, but maybe in some way I am getting close to understanding what you mean.

Here I meet Zabel. I keep wanting to call her that way, because she plays Zabel. She runs around, talks to her friends, comes back to me, sits close and asks about my plans. I think we should be friends. Especially if she lets me call her Zabel.

Almost no one pays attention at me here, and I like it.

-

She knew that something important was happening at the market. And that she truly did not care about what that important thing was. She just wanted to have silence with him. Inside a car that was too grey, that fit grey skies above grey buildings. Inside grey car- dark seats. In-between seats she sat, waited for a moment worthy of remembering. Storage of feelings. All she knew was what she felt, with her coldish hands and nails not taken care of. Blackness for eyes, a world in mind, she was ready for adventures. Adventures not the word, too sweet for her experience. She’d hear a song that scratched her mind for a long time. She would try to fight it, losing concentration on more sides. And then she’d leave, before she felt too sorry for the silly one beside her. Apologise and leave, unworthy one.

Her inadequate lips shattered and became still with something between doubt, carelessness and whatever the hell it could be. Kind of feministic and kind of submissive, she searched around for a direction for her leap. Could not really find any, jumped inside of her self, much farther than she could imagine. Gasped in reality - no one noticed. Later on, no one noticed.

-

So yes, I like it. And then decide to travel and see her wherever she is around the world. I say to her. Let me see what worries you when you look in the mirror, and what worries you when you look inside. What do you lie about and what do you think you talk truth about. I want to trust everything to you, knowing all along that just some hours from now I will forget you. My sweetest Mandala. All your colors, all the sand and all your colors. That is how true I want to be to you. All the way, all the destructive way.

-

Next time I see her here, in my own country. Yes, this is where Zabel does belong, I think to myself. This is not a lie to self. She speaks from stage out loud, pronouncing, announcing, denouncing. She speaks from stage out loud. She changes clothes after the play, sits wearing a long shirt in the chairs of the audience. Her giving kind wanting to know how it feels to receive. She learns, she then goes back. Putting clothes on, going back on stage. Loving, laughing. 

She is available to all worries and confrontations. She opens herself, sits in cafes, speaks, discusses, argues, hunts, laughs, drinks, cries, says no, says yes, she gives, she takes. She swirls, says to them all that they are not her kind. She comes to love, sees no return. Her selfless kind can take no more. So it is selfish. She dances. Her warm body dances across halls and inside labyrinths of homeless kind. She’s going home tomorrow, and she is dancing such a sad dance. She may not go tomorrow, she should not dance. Enough. Don’t dance. Enough. She does.

-

Dear G, I just got off the bus. The driver told me, you should get off now, you got into the wrong direction. After a ride that lasted for one hour instead of 15 minutes. After the ride where everyone’s dark tired face, in a street light of 7 pm, was not my friend and was my friend. In a blue bus where we all sweated in harmony. In friendship and dislike. The drawn eyebrows, the young girl, the young man, the old man, the woman, the more, the sad. In stolen rush hour, silent contemplation of each other. Learning the features of another, wanting to know his life, who’s wanting to know her life. 

All in one direction during weary watching of procession passing by. They’re passing - I am thinking of the sofa in my house. They’re passing - I am thinking of the chicken boiling in my wife’s kitchen. They’re passing - do I have the keys. They’re passing - do I need to shower. They’re passing - will she answer if I write to her. They’re gone - he will drive faster now. He is our friend. All the destructive way. He is our friend. You got into the wrong direction.

She’s going home tomorrow, but she’s dancing such a sad dance. She got into the wrong direction. She must get off the bus. Don’t dance. Enough. She does. She won’t get off the bus.