Zeki Müren

When I was a little girl my father and I used to spend Sunday afternoons watching one Turkish movie after another. We absolutely loved them but my mother never quite understood how I could like or even relate to these movies. My father and I have a huge generation gap. I was born in 1983 whereas he was born in 1934, that's 49 years. My mom who was born in 1952 couldn't even relate to these movies any longer.

Now let me give you a little briefing about old Turkish movies. They are overly dramatic, have bad production quality and are typically based on some kind of melodramatic love story. They are similar to today's low budget Bollywood movies but with less color and coordinated dance routines.

We had two blue armed chairs in our living room. My father would sit in the one just across the TV balancing a plate of fruits on his belly while carefully pealing them. I would sit in the other chair leaning towards his side of room occasionally giving him petty glances for some fruits. This was our unspoken ritual.

Back then there really weren't many movie actors or actresses, a lot of them were musicians that also acted or actors/actresses that also sang. One of the infamous gifted singers of that time was Zeki Müren. Alongside his musical career he starred in eighteen films are wrote their musical scores. Epically famous for his gentlemanly ways and eloquent use of the Turkish language Zeki Müren's effeminate ways, ornate accessories and heavy make-up played a pioneer role in the acceptance of homosexuality in Turkey. Regardless of his controversial choice in sexuality, he remained as one of the most highly respected artists in Turkey throughout his career. Till this day, you will see eyes across generations well up as they listen to his poetic music. I am a living example.

As a little girl, watching Turkish cinema in my parents living room as my father's mini me I remember crying listening to this his song 'Gitme Sana Muhtacım'. Unaware of all the heartaches his songs represented his voice soothed me to an extent of joyful sorrow. Fast forward to 2012, I am now 29 years old. Zeki Müren's voice continues to mesmerize me; his poetic lyrics now hold deeper meanings and move me to different level.

I weep to his song just like I did 23 years ago as my father's mini me.

Zeki Müren you will forever remain far away from being a ''passive voice''.
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jsb-3WxYCt4) Click to listen.

This isn't a love letter you fool

But it is an excerpt to say I love you.

This morning as I was driving I got a whiff of my own perfume.
Burberry classic.
They say you only smell your own perfume on you when it doesn't blend with your skin.

Mine doesn't, not to me atleast, it isn't mine.

I remember your brown sweater and your stripped scarf.
Burberry imbedded into the fabric.
I would couple them with my brown shoes and jeans and would strut my way through the Fens.

Warmth
Layer, bundle, wrap.
Layer your shirts,
Bundle your sweater,
Warp your scarf .

Easy as 123, there is no such thing as cold, only the absence of heat.
Keep the heat in.

Un-wrap, scent.
Un-bundle, scent.
Un-layer, scent.
Whoops take that back put back a layer, you're naked fool.

The smell so potent everyone would think it was my scent.

Wrong.
Only I knew they were wrong.
It wasn't mine it was Lolas.

I don't really think I gave you the chance to wear that sweater, that scarf or that perfume as a matter of fact.

This morning. I remembered you, how much I missed you.
The how muches can go on forever...

I never really said thank you enough. Actually I don't think I ever said it.
Maybe I wrote it but I never uttered the words.
I never really extended my arms to give you a warm hug even after you taught me how to give hugs.

Sorry.
I always hoped you knew how much I loved you but actions are louder then words.
Now I am simply too far away to show you anything
Scents and visuals seem to be what's left behind from all the absentees

Beyond passive voice.

Thank you.
I love you.

FAMILIARITY THE NEMESIS OF CHANGE

A list. A new year resolution. Resolutions.

I need to stop smoking.
I need to stop drinking.
I need to stop my compulsive lying.
I need to stop spending excessive money.
I need to stop wearing ugly underwear.
I need. I need. I need.

New years have become a ritualistic opportunity to welcome the new year by waving good-bye to the old. It embraces a new you by bidding adieu to the surrogate you and you in return hope that you can kick back old habits that you have accumulated of the years. This is what I call a superficial understanding to reality: the reality in which the world encompasses real love, real truth, real motive to understanding and above all real intention to change.

Needs are not concrete reasons for change, they are merely self-inflections, realizations of personal negatives that superficially stimulate you mind.

Beneath all of this, under the layers of our subconscious mind, change actually comes from the innate need to kick a familiarity. Once you realize the need to change what’s familiar to you, the metamorphosis unwinds itself. The real art is not the actual change, it’s the part when you realize that you need to branch away from your familiar. It’s the point where you voluntarily diverge paths from where you feel so much closer to home.

Change.
Happens.
Only when….

YOU UNLOCK THE DOORS TO THE SANCTUARY THAT YOU CONFINE IN.

Change is a friend, a good friend of mine: one that many haven’t spent much time with. Sometimes I see this friend as a reflection of myself and sometimes as a stranger invading my mind. Most of our friendship is built on transcending mental communication and pure understanding where a solid ground of respect lays between our "beingness". Don’t get me wrong this friendship is not peaches and cream. We have our profound subliminal differences that spiral downwards and erupt inside our minds. We mutually exhaust each other and I believe that we sometimes do this on purpose. To push ourselves further from the familiarity that we can so easily create. It’s easy to build a friendship on familiarity it’s difficult to create one on mutually exclusive differences that sometimes harmonize and suddenly clash. But it’s the clash that brings the excitement; it’s the loud collision that transforms into harmony that satisfies the soul.

Amongst the biggest of all changes is the change of a familiar person. Typically human nature that finds its sanctuary in familiarity hits a roadblock at this point. It’s the most definite one amongst all because most people not only don’t realize their resilience to the change but actually think they have taken it head on.

Human relations are phenomenal at fooling their ordinate humans. The ordinary dynamic reverses itself. If a functional person become familiar to another person over the coarse of time, when an alternate person comes to take over the first persons function (on all fair grounds a respective movement) the surrounding (the person in relation to the doer) pretends to accept the change. They accept because they realize the need for change, what they don’t realize is their need to distance themselves from familiarity.

The human, that should control his or her human relations becomes submissive and bows down. He or she begins to lose control over thoughts of change. The change happens, the acceptance of the change remains untouched and the person starts to look for the familiarity in the change.

In all this confusion the human mind merely sees this as a switch in the system. X gets switched for XX where XX carries traits of X, which is familiar to the surrounding.

So then…
Does the change really happen?
Absolutely not because the familiarity is not completely broken.

Until the sanctuary of familiarity is torn 'change' will remain in passive voice and 'real change' will be waiting for its a call.

Acceptance, Judgments bonafide mistress.

Often times us humans are caught in the limbo of judging or accepting. Our innate human character forces us to uncontrollably judge, our emotional human touch reprimands this raw behavior and dictates acceptance. The odd thing is that these paradoxical acts are trapped inside every single human being and are interchangeably used when needed.

So I ask myself is really a difference between judging and accepting? Does accepting solely determine that you no longer judge or is it simply ‘‘judgment’s bonafide mistress?’’

The alarm goes off at 6:15 AM. Fifteen minutes earlier than necessary, Lil Miss Mafs needs her playtime. She licks my eyes, my nose, my nostrils, my mouth, my ears. She trots over my empty stomach, I supine grunt comes out of my mouth. She jumps out of bed, prances to the living room and brings back her ball. The grunt gets louder, ‘‘no Mafs not now!’’ I roll over turn on the bedside lamp and check my blackberry. No pressing matters on the agenda right now, I reach over to my IPod dock turn on some music, crawl out of bed and head to the kitchen.

Alternate scenario:
Pressing matter…The grunt turns into a murmur ‘‘oh God what now?’’ I type away on the blackberry press send, reach over to my IPod dock turn on some music and crawl out of bed.

Flick. I turn on the kitchen light.
Creaking. I open the cupboard and feed Ms. Mafs.
Tuk. The orange light of the water boiler.
Puk. The boiler’s orange light is off, alerting me that the water is ready.

Füürrp. I make myself some coffee: instant coffee, lactose free milk with a pinch of cinnamon.
Stir, stir, stir, ting, ting ting. The spoon scraps against the mug.
Shuffling. I pack up my breakfast and stick it inside my meal sack.

Flick. I turn on the bathroom light.
Pee, brush my teeth, wash my face, apply my body cream, then my face cream finally my eye cream.
Pıssss. Deodorant.
Pıst. Pıst. Perfume

Flick. I turn on the bedroom light.
Creaking. I pick out my clothes.
Pufff. I sit on my down comforter to put my socks on.
Shuffling. I get dressed.
Zip. I open my make-up bag.
Swoosh. I apply eye shadow, mascara and blush.
Zip. I close my make-up bag.

Flick. I turn on the entrance light.
The grunt has turned into loving voice ‘come on Mafs lets go potty’.
Tık. I open the door.
Bam. The door slams behind me.

Cling cling. I enter my house again. Mafya wants a treat. ‘‘Good girl.’’
Panting. Mafya is way too excited.
Piieeewww. I turn off my iPod dock.
Flick, flick, flick, flick. I turn off all the lights.
Bam. The door slams behind me. I’m out.

I drive out of the neighborhood that I love. The neighborhood that has brought me the sense of unity. I say bye to the guards, the shop keeper on the side of the street, the obese taxi driver that waits in the very same corner everyday as though he’s waiting to wave goodbye. I drive over hills. I drive to a distant place that awaits me.

My iPod keeps jamming. I sing. I beat my hands over the steering wheel. I am, so to say, totally in my element.

The rising morning sun catches my eyes and pleasantly blinds me. The light wind that seeps through the window brushes against my cheek and floats within my hair. The roads are empty, tranquility has settled over the busy streets of Istanbul. I drive over the hills and reach the Bosphorus bridge. Struck by beauty, as I’m crossing over, I look left and right as if to check if everything is in place, whether or not the Bosphorus is still flowing. The sense of belonging is powerfully ignited.

Just after I cross the bridge I take the third exit.
I drive into a neighborhood that is so distant to me. A neighborhood that has brought me the sense of judgment. I say hi and wave good morning to its own people. I conquer its hills. The sense of belonging ceases to exist.

Swoosh. I weave in and out of a 7:45 am traffic jam.
Beep. A cab toots its horn.
Screech. Cars slam on their breaks.
Honk. A bus slams on its horn as it skims the back of the car in front.
Agggh. Men screaming profanity at one another. Men degrading women.

An orchestra of noise pollution. A symphony of chaos and destruction.
I notice all this in its grandeur and all the while I judge. The people that throw themselves onto raging traffic. The bus drivers that try to make a metal sheet out of my VW Jetta. The nonsense traffic that has occurred at 7:45 AM. The men that yell at me. The abusive language.

Most of all I judge myself. I judge myself because I do every single thing I have written uptil now every day. I judge myself because I have accepted my judgment and pretend to live like ‘my norm’.

So here is the answer to my own question: No there is no difference between judging and accepting. Acceptance is judgment’s passive voice. This passive voice is hidden within reality because we human beings see acceptance as a positive demeanor. How many times have told our parents ‘‘can’t you accept the way I am?’’ . Their acceptance would reflect in our eyes as a positive approval where in fact they are so far from approving. They are actually simply sugar coating their judgment and condemnation but you as the victim have not opened your eyes to it.

Open your eyes and realize.
Acceptance is merely judgment’s ''bonafide mistress'' that's prancing around like a little princess.

Acceptance, is a reflection of passive voice.

The tunnel of infatuation...

There is this man.

A Brit.

A juvenile convict.
Who stole cars and vandalized streets.
Known as a ‘‘real wild boy, with a chip on his shoulder’’.

A recovering heroin addict.
That flakes every now and then.
Who tries to drown his sorrows.

A strikingly polarizing character.
That survived four brushes with death.
Otherwise known as "The Cat,"

This man,
Dave Gahan.

For those of you who don’t recognize him by his name.
The lead singer of Depeche Mode.

This character never hid who he was, he flat out confronted his past and accepted his present. He answers questions liberally and show cases his life the way it is. No frills nor denials.

This Dave Gahan was an infatuation to me when I was 16 I am now 27 and have not lost one bit of my infatuation for him. His tattoos are still sexy, he hair is still fucking awesome, his retro suits continue to amaze me (although he has swaped his shoulder padded blazers for some slim fit replacements) and his smile is still infectious.

Yes, I realize that these are all physical attributes that can give me the ‘tinglies’ but Dave’s undeniably baritone and forceful voice is the real orgasm behind his character. The atmosphere Dave creates is as passionate and equally intruding as Colin Farell and Rosario Dawson in the movie Alexander. Dave’s voice is Collin: emotional and commanding attention, the audience is Rosario: judging and submissive.

Dave’s voice fucks, not has sex, not makes loves, flat out fucks his audience.
There are artists that make love to their instruments like Tori Amos and her piano (which I will have to leave for another session) but a voice that genuinely fucks its audience is a rare find. Dave’s voice coupled with his stage performance is, like I said before, the real orgasmic experience.

Dave Gahan.
Keep being that person far way from passive voice, with so many strikes against your name.

You own the stage.

Staring death in the face...

Those of you who know me are well aware of how petrified I am of dying. I can practically hear the distant chuckles from those of you who are saying ‘‘who really isn’t afraid of death’’ and perhaps you’re right considering there really isn’t much you can do about it, it’s a primal fear all living things are ingraved with but for us human beings (well for most of us) there are ways of dealing with it. That part I haven’t discovered yet. So for those of you who are just getting to know me, let me introduce you to thantophobias Açelya.

The concept of death, the notion of physically disappearing from this world as I know it, the unbearable mystery or perhaps the lack there of it is completely incomprehensible to me. When I think about death and really concentrate of what it means to me the first symptom I feel is fluttering in my stomach. For that split second it reminds me of the queasiness I felt in my stomach during my first kiss but on the second half of that second I am reminded of the reality of my thoughts. Panic creeps in and gives way for terror to settle in. The terror sinks me into a deep static state where the world just starts caving in. For those of you who have watched inception its similar to the scenes of a dream collapsing. In this endless hole that I build around myself I start shaking, lose track of my breathing and finally my heart starts racing so much that I feel as though I might actually collapse that very moment. Just as I am about to hit ground zero…BAM I’m back. Life’s back to normal and I’m actually driving across the Bosphorus bridge starring at what I call the most majestic view this world has to offer wondering how it is possible for me to feel so horrible amidst a simple moment of admiration.

Yesterday something happened and I came to an understanding that beauty that I admire in all its grandeur or modesty ironically brings forth an unexplainable terror that occasionally torments my life for a very simple reason.

Here is what happened.

I was driving in over to a friend’s house after a long days work. I find the end of the day drive from work to be the time where I am most vulnerable. I cry the most, I laugh the most, I yell the most everything seems to be in extremes during that time of the day. So anyways….

As I approach city traffic I come to a halting stop. An ambulance has its sirens on, the back doors are wide open, paramedics are hustling inside the confined space and there is young man that appears to be in his 30 starring at me. This man is the patient. I don’t quite know what’s wrong with him but his face tell me he’s not in good condition. Suddenly, as if something has entered his almost lifeless body he turns towards me and looks me dead straight in the eye. (No pun intended here). He’s starch white and his eyes are glazed over with fear. The fear of death.

So here I am staring at this guy, maybe in what would be his last minutes of life as he knows it and I’m looking at him as though he’s my ninth grade science project. I signal no signs of panic. In fact I’m calm and collected. I’ve got my shit together at a moment where I least expect it. On top of this I have the audacity to give this guy a nod. A fucking nod!!!

Bam!!! The ambulance door shuts in between our eyes. Life as I know it continues. His life…who knows what happened. Perhaps he’s alive, if he is all hats off to you guy. If he’s not, rest in peace, I’m sorry the last thing you got to saw was my nod. To you it was a nod but for me it was far more. I realized that the fear of death surrounds me when I’m cocooned in my own understanding of beauty but when it vicariously stares me straight in face through another person it doesn’t make me flinch.

Vicarious death is far too passive voice for me to react to.
It’s when my reality combines with my subconscious thoughts of death that it becomes far away from passive voice.

Twirl twirl twirl like a little girl

Prologue:

I really good childhood friend of mine (as in we used to run around in diapers together, wait no, I ran he chased) decided to quit his job earlier on in the year. He said he had it with work, that he needed a break to live again, that he was gasping for fresh air and the list goes on and on. I respected this decision of his for I always found the ability to just drop everything and leave an admirable attribute. Days, weeks and months passed and it is actually about that time that he starts looking for a new job. I’m starting to get ridiculously jealous of how his priorities have been mixed up lately. He’s entered the blissful glee, the vicious circle of not working, not wanting to work, not needing to work hence as Milan would refer to as the ‘‘unbearable lightness of being’’. His state of mind and energy is so strong that sometimes it has the ability to pull me, the ever so pessimist cynic, into his world.

When I get pulled into this world nothing but trouble comes around….

And it begins:

My friend calls me in hysterics yesterday telling me all about how this formerly very rich old man is now bankrupt and is selling his wife’s ridiculously lavish fur coats for peas and carrots. Apparently, my friend’s mother, who loves lathering herself in expensive accessories or any other sign of wealth, had decided to buy every single fur coat that the old man was willing to sell. However, she first wanted to check whether or not they were real. So she dragged these coats to a fur store in Beyoğlu. Now mind you let’s not forget how heavy fur coats are, so the sight of this little lady stomping down Istiklal in search of the authenticity of dead animal is hilarious all by itself. A dead animal only really becomes valuable when it’s shaped into a garment and I’m pretty sure, if the exact lady who was clutching on to these coats with her dear life saw the corpse of this animal elsewhere she would probably freak out and enter some sort of conniption. Moving on…

After getting the A-OK on the coats, my friend’s mother proceeded to bring the coats home, called my friend downstairs and made him watch her fur coat fashion runway. Him not having anything to do admitted to enjoying the little gig but couldn’t prevent himself from thinking just how much profit he could make if he sold these coats. As his mother tried on the starch white lynx coats and pranced around the house playing dress up, my friend found himself drifting away from profit zone entering the experience zone: the wanting to try the lynx coat on zone. Although the other coats were laying on the bed including a perfectly asymmetrical leopard fur coat his eye was set on the lynx. He wanted to try, touch and engulf himself in the lynx.

Blinded by the white….
He runs upstairs to his own apartment and that’s when my phone rang.

As he explained this story to me, it occurred to me that although I am against wearing animal fur it would be an amazing experience to dance with one of these coats. I wouldn’t wear this coat with clothes underneath though. I would just have my bra and panties on and some comfortable kicks maybe converses, maybe ballerina flats….

I would dance dance dance…
I don’t just mean prancing around the house dancing though. I mean flat out dancing, at a club, with strobe lights flashing and loud music. Dancing like a spaze, twirling around so that the coat flares open and comes crashing down as I slow down. The air trapped between my body and the coat would act as some sort of ventilation, as if a cool breeze was brushing against me. I envision it to be similar to the wind blowing in your face as your driving.

Twirl twirl twirl like a little girl.
Yes that’s right I said it.

I want to wear a fur coat on top of my bra and panties, strap on some comfy bubbles and just dance. AND yes all of this in a public arena.
This would be my way of expressing the ‘‘unbearable lightness of being’’.

I am totally bound to get into some trouble but that’s what I do best staying away from passive voice.