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.

La Durée...Behind the box.

I walk into my bosses quarters the other day, just as I am passing by his assistant I realize a beautiful box of La Durée sitting on her desk.

I stop, walk backwards, open the box and inside sits about 15 little colorful pieces of heaven.

Shades of pink, green, brown, orange, purple, turquoise, yellow….individual pieces of art delicately placed inside a very simple and elegant pale green rectangular box.
I close the lid, mention what a beautiful box it is and walk into my bosses office.

Flash forward forty five minutes.
Chief and I have I ended our meeting and are having a little chit chat catching up.

When he says: ‘‘Acelya did you see the box of La Durée outside?’’
Me: ‘‘Yeah I did they look amazing!’’
Chief: ‘‘Did you have any?’’
Me: ‘‘No I’m on a diet.’’
Chief: ‘‘Come on you can have just one.’’
Me: ‘‘There is no one with me and La Durée, it’s either all or nothing I do however plan on keeping the box.’’
Chief: ‘‘What no you can’t keep the box I want the box.’’
Me: ‘‘Why do you want the box?’’
Chief: ‘‘I want the box you can’t have it.’’
Me: ‘‘What are you going to do with a light green box Chief?’’
Chief: ‘‘I want the box.’’

This goes on back and forth a couple more times and I give up for the time being, leave the Chief quarters and walk back to my desk. Thinking about why he didn’t give me this box all along.

Flash forward a couple hours.
I go back into the quarters and tell his assistant that I want the box. To my utter surprise she says ‘‘He told me not to give it to you.’’ As these words came out of her mouth the expression of my face must have been priceless. I simply could not understand what a 45 year old man was going to do with light green very feminine La Durée box. I do the walk of shame back to my desk and send him a text ‘‘Boxes are for women…I can’t believe you told her not to give it to me!!!’’

Flash forward to 6:00 PM.
Just as I am about to walk into the gym I get a text, ‘‘I’m really enjoying this box right now! It’s lovely.’’ I, in my unexplainable frenzy write back, ‘‘Shit. I’m going to France to buy all these boxes and stack them on my desk.’’
Chief: ‘‘Ok. Give me the macaroons and you can keep the boxes. I already have a box!’’
Me: ‘‘This is the worst deal ever!!!’’
Chief: ‘‘I shared the macaroons with you today.
Me: ‘‘I am on a never ending diet that’s torture rather than courtesy!!!’’
Chief: ‘‘Ok. Well then don’t complain about me eating your future macaroons. If I’m going to get macaroons then I need a box to keep them in, so I’m sticking with the current box. The new macaroons please.
Me: ‘‘You’re going to devour them anyways so why do you need a box? So what your saying is you get to keep the box and get new macaroons. That’s a worse rip off worse than the ones in the grand bazaar!’’

I think about this whole incidence and the back and forth 'box' messaging the whole night long. I post comments on facebook and twitter. Update my BBM status to La Durée box fight….talk about with my friends. For some odd reason something as simple as not getting that box was really upsetting me.

I fell asleep thinking about that damn box.
Woke up 8 hours later still thinking about it.
Ridiculous, I know, but I had become fixated on this inadement object.

The next day Chief starts makes sly comments…
Laughs and jokes about it. Asks me if I’m over my grudge. Truth is I clearly wasn’t. I was envisioning him putting all his cufflinks into this box and laughing about it.

Muhahahahaha I could practically hear his laughter.

Flash forward to yesterday 5:00 PM.
I’m at my desk and all of a sudden Chief appears from the corner of my cube. Well actually not appear because I can tell it’s him from his footsteps, his shoes have a particular sound.

He sits in the chair next to me. Starts talking about work and reminds himself that he forgot to do something and asks me to come to his office so we could over it. I pick up my phone, my notebook and pen and start following him into office. Chief is very courteous man he always gives way to the ladies regardless of age or status. So naturally I walk into his quarters before him and realize a whole bunch of people that aren’t even on his direct team crowding in his office. I start slowing down and ask him what was up with the commotion and before I even know it I’m in a room with a bunch of people staring at me.

I start having a minor panic attack.
Hot flash hot flash…ahhh what the hell is going on??? Why is everyone staring at me. Is my fly open? Oh my God I know I am flaming red right now! GOD WHAT IS GOING ON!!!

Then I hear Chief’s voice ‘‘We are here to congratulate….Ceylan…no just joking Açelya for completing her one year at the company……..and for that I have a little gift for her, a box and a cake.’’
I hear people congratulating me but in my mind all I hear is:

THE BOX….THE FREAKING BOX!!! IT'S HANDED TO ME. CHIEF GAVE IT TO ME IN HIS OWN HANDS!!!! I WIN! THE BOX IS MINE LALALALALALA.

And followed by the thought…..This is the kindest gesture I ever received. I know it’s just a box. An empty box with all the colorful pieces of heaven devoured by others.

To Chief it was part of big joke. To bystanders perhaps pointless. For me it was learning experience.

I owned that box in my mind, found a function for it before I even knew who it belonged to. It was Chief’s humorous approach to rewarding me with just a tiny gesture.

I told him today…that one day I would hand that box down to someone.

Chief. You truly are a character far away from passive voice. Thank you.

Beating the beast inside of you

Something very interesting happened to me the other day.

It was one of those ‘wow’ moments that gives you the creeps when you realize the reality and change that has crept into your life over the course of years

A very close friend and I were having our regular mindless chit chat.
It was so mindless that we decided we could carry on this conversation over BBM. One thing led to another and we ended up going on tangents and we started to talk about traveling. Traveling the world, experiencing new things rather than going to London or Paris every year. All of a sudden I wrote something, a word, a name….something that I wrote over and over again for several years of my life. Year after year, month after month, week after week, day after day, morning after night…over and over again.

At that particular moment it occurred to me that I hadn’t written this word, this word that I was once upon a time been so passionate about, for years. I paused to reflect on how my life had changed. How it had evolved from a childish dream to an actual life. My life.

How is it possible that mankind can detach itself from its passions so easily? So detached that years later when the word spontaneously gets integrated into your daily life it actually makes you pause and think.

It becomes a spacebar in your grinding life. It the moment when you stop to pause and read what your writing about. That second you realize that you have been writing for minutes on end forgetting to breathe. The spacebar lets you flashback to what you were writing about.

The spacebar...flashback is a whirlwind time tunnel that reminds you not to live in passive voice. It's your inner voice pounding inside your head ordering you to break away from your out passive voice.

Passive voice...is hidden in everybody.
The real objective is to beat the beast down to subside your inner voices cry for attention.

Ray LaMontagne 'A True Storyteller'

I’ve been away from my blog for some time now.
Concha passed, U2 came and now Ray is singing melodies for me.

For those of you that don’t know much about him here’s a snapshot of Ray.

Ray is a 1973 Nashua, New Hampshire born folk singer and songwriter. But this is a very vague explanation of who he really is….

Ray…

Was born into a dysfunctional family consisting of a constantly on the move mother and a violent musician father that abandoned his family while Ray was still a little child. It’s typically easier for people to pick up and leave, quit their current life and start a new one. The ones that really suffer are those left behind, they get scarred and get weirder by the day, as did Ray. Ray was odd child to begin with and as he grew up he strayed further and further from popular culture that would make him more of a social norm amongst his community. Instead of socializing he fought with his classmates and ditched classes to read fantasy novels in the forest not far away from his home. The forest became some kind of boundary-less tree house for him. He began to exercise his endless creativity making sure to keep angst distance from any kind of music as it reminded him of his father and replaced it writing stories. Although totally unaware, this where his musical story telling first started to shape himself.
After he graduated from high school Ray moved away from mother to find a full-time job at a shoe factory. He worked hectic 65 hour weeks immersed in the smell of rubber. Then one morning at 4 a.m., LaMontagne heard Stephen Stills’ song "Treetop Flyer" on the radio. For whatever reason it sparked his interest enough to actually break his distance from music. After purchasing the Stills Alone album he pulled a total 180 quit his job and started his career as a singer and songwriter.
This guy is an amazing artist he really feel what he shares with his audience. His songs touch souls in a different way...when he sings you become him. You become the person he is singing too. You become his lyrics.

Ray La Montagne….Raymond Charles takes you away from yourself and makes you another person. His music takes you away from your own ‘passive voice’ and brings you into aura of emotional storytelling where you can build your own boundary-less tree house and drift away.

Ray…

All hats off to you.
With all my respect and admiration you are so far away from passive voice.


HOLD YOU IN MY ARMS LYRICS:

When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears
It was easy to see you'd been crying
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe it reigns
But who really profits from the dying
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions
My worried mind that you quiet
Place your hands on my face
Close my eyes and say
That love is a poor man's food
Don't prophesize
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
And I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
So now we see how it is
This fist begets the spear
Weapons of war
Symptoms of madness
Don't let your eyes refuse to see
Don't let your ears refuse to hear
Or you ain't never going to shake this sense of sadness
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold on forever
And I could hold you in my arms
I could hold on forever

Why Passive Voice

Throughout my writing you will on several occasions find that I will use the phrase "passive voice". You may wonder what the hell I'm on about, constantly referring to things as passive voice.

Passive voice entered my life just about the same day Mr. Cunningham entered my life. Cunningham was amongst the few people I actually liked during my high school years; he entered my life as my 9th grade English teacher. Cunnignham being an English teacher was very particular about correcting grammatical mistakes. He has this red pen that he would use to practically sketch on your paper. Rather than circling your mistakes once and saying watch out for so and so, he had the habit of circling each of your reoccurring mistakes one by one. Everyone had their thing, mine was PASSIVE VOICE.

Wikipedia sums up passive voice the following way:

"The passive voice is a grammatical voice in which the subject receives the action of a transitive verb. Passive voice emphasizes the process rather than who is performing the action."

For example instead of saying "John gave Mary a book you say Mary was given a book by John."

It took me some time to understand this passive voice jargon so Cunningham laid it out for me.
Passive voice makes you writing dull and in a way backwards. Instead of writing in an active tone you end up writing in a commentary tone. Its sort of like being re-active rather than pro-active.

Moving on. Fast forward to college.
I hated passive voice.
It made the writing boring and gave me the impression that the author really didn't want to own up to his or her writing.
Red marks automatically starting appearing in front of my eyes until I actually starting marking them myself.

Moving on. Fast forward to now.
I have realized that passive voice is everywhere. It changes forms. Passive voice isn't only a writing thing it's a living thing. Any indefinative action you take, any action you copy, any action to blend in, any action to appear like the social norm resembles passive voice to me.

So as you can see, Mr. Cunningham's red marks on my high school papers have evolved into red splotches that I observe in daily life.

Passive voice is phenomenon that is embraced within our societies. It creates the social norms, the socially accepted and appreciated. Regardless of these societal building blocks, I continue to observe and point out the passive voice that lays beneath myself and society.

Concha Buika

I have this very odd habit.

Whenever I buy a concert ticket in advance I make sure to listen to the music endlessly until the day of the show. I become the guitar, the drums, the bass the voice of the music and believe me I sound amazing in my mind.

I have a Concha Buika concert coming up on the 20th of July. Although a big fan I never purchased a Concha CD, instead I chose to download the songs that I knew I liked. I was a generic Concha fan per say and to be honest with you I really dislike these type of listeners. Those who say they like a specific artist but who only know the artist's mainstream music. This to me is equivalent to the passive voice in writing.

The moment I realized I was in fact a passive listener, I went out and bought every single Concha CD out there. In fact in one of my escapades, I was so mesmerised in my Concha hypnosis that I didn't even realize that I was standing just next to friend of mine that happened to be glaring at the amount of CD's I was just about to purchase. I looked him straight in the eye and had to do a double take to recognize him. He has broken into my Concha zone. Needless to say tapping back into the zone wasn't really that difficult.

Right now I am totally in the zone. I am typing to the rhythm of Solea de Libertad.

Her voice is as raspy as the sound of a rusty nail being unscrewed from a hole...

Sometimes she whines, I liken it to the sound of constipation....

Concha Buika...

Is as furthest away as you can get from 'passive voice' in music.

The Beginning

So I've heard a lot about this blogging business. I follow a couple blogs myself but never really thought of creating my own blog until my friend Canan inspired me.



You see Canan, my dear friend has entered a mid-life crisis twenty years to early. Typically, as per her own blog, she writes to her friends individually to vent about her various problems. She now says she has ridden herself from her issues and claims her blog is her own proof of exposure to the outside world.



'An open exposure of the new Canan she is in the process of creating.'



I don't quite agree with this.



I think Canan still needs to vent and finds blogging to be a convenient way to manifest her thoughts amongst her readers. BRILLIANT.



So yes this will be my new platform. A platform where I will bitch and moan about the daily problems I face, a platform where I will exaggerate my happy moments, a platform where I will discuss issues I have no idea about and claim that I know them and perhaps most importantly a platform where I will overtly express my bias opinions to those who chose to read my blog.



So there dear readers...

Or, so there Acelya (the only person that is currently reading this blog)



I have began my own little blogging voyage destined to be filled with typos and grammatical mistakes. There will however not be passive voice mistakes. Passive voice is as bad in life as it is in writing. I makes everything around it dull and lifeless.