Upper West Side'da Herkes Gibi

Oturmus hic isik almayan evinin arka odasinda, camdan disari bakarken bir adam gordu karsi apartmanda. Odanin icini secemiyordu ama adami gorebiliyordu. Sakalliydi, galiba hafif de kumraldi. Saclari da uzunla kisa arasiydi. Hani denize dalsa kafasini disari cikardigi an tek hareketle saga ya da sola dogru atabilecegi kadardi tam. Saga mi atardi acaba yoksa sola mi diye dusunmeden edemedi. Kimdi acaba bu adam?  Niye Upper West Side'i secmisti yasamak icin? New York'ta onun gibi sakalli, hafif uzun sacli adamlarin tercih edebilecegi bir suru baska mahalle vardi. Mesela evli miydi? Evliyse biraz daha kabul edilebilirdi burda yasamasi ama yok bekarsa o zaman derhal Brooklyn'e gitsindi. Orada da her yerde degil, bir tek Williamsburg'de yasayabilirdi. Ya da belki Dumbo. Her ikisi icin de esek yukuyle para kazansaydi iyi olurdu cunku evler cok pahaliydi. Bastan asagi burjuvalastirilmis mahallelerin kurşun askerleriydi orada yasayanlar. Kendi elleriyle pahalilastirip, sonra orda yasamanin onlari daha basarili gosterdigine inanip, hergun ise gelip giden ve aslinda orda yasayacak vakti bulamayan insanlarla doluydu buralar.

Uzuldu sakalli adam icin. Yanlis mahalleye dustu heralde diye dusundu. Yazik, arkadaslari onun tam bir basarisizlik ornegi oldugunu da dusunuyordur simdi. Aynada ustunu basini duzelten adama bakarken aklindan onun hikayesini yaziyor ve su nokta da bu adama uzuluyor olduguna inanamadi bir an. Tam delirdigine kanaat getiriyordu ki adam ustune bir yelek gecirdi. Kendi gibi gorunen diger adamlarin da surekli giydigi onu koton, arkasi ipekli, 17. yuzyil Ingiliz maden ocagi calisanlarinin favorisi yeleklerden. Bu sahneyi gordugu an hakli olduguna karar verdi. Bu sefer aklinda hic kusku da kalmamisti. Yolunu kaybetmis bir klişe sandigiydi bu adam. Insallah bu mahallede yasadigi icin yakinda ölüp gitmez diye dusundu. Cunku hicbir şeyden degil de, klişelerden ölürdu insan. Pek cok şeysiz yaşabiliyorduk sanki. Cocuksuz gayet de guzel yapabilenler vardi mesela. Ya da işsiz, gucsuz. Sagliksiz da gunler birbirini kovalayabiliyordu. Ve hatta parasiz. Bir tek kliseleri olmadan rahat nefes alip veremiyordu insanlar.

Sac sakal modeli ve yelek kliseleri tam olan adamin olumune sebep de adres klisesinin yoklugu olabilirdi. Ne kadar da cok calismisti halbuki her seyi icin yillarca. Heyhat, her sey yetmemisti iste hayatta kalmak icin. Herkes icin oldugu gibi onun icin de gerekli olan aslinda tek bir seydi;  benzemek. Herkes gibi olmak.

Starbucks Had To Be Sacrificed

Let's be honest here for a second; I sometimes don't have any clue what to write about. New Yorker staff writer Susan Orlean once said " If you’ve got writer’s block, you don’t have writer’s block. You have reporter’s block. You only are having trouble writing because you don’t actually yet know what you’re trying to say, and that usually means you don’t have enough information. That’s the signal to walk away from the keyboard, think about what it is that you don’t really know yet, and go do that reporting".

On the strong end, isn't it Susan? When I first read this paragraph, I said to myself "YES! This has to be it!" All those years, I've clearly been not writing but simply reporting. But if reporting is the reason for my frequent blocks then why do I occasionally experience the exact opposite of writer's block? A momentary phenomenon that could only be described as writer's abundance attack! My bags fill up with pieces of random, paper-like materials: chewing gum wrappings, newspaper pages, financial reports from the office, once even a plastic bag: all glorious alternatives to my notebook, which save the day on notebook's behalf. The urge to write my thoughts down comes so suddenly and so strongly that whatever wants to come out of my system cannot withstand waiting for a regular piece of paper or a freaking laptop. It's an outpour of words linked through punctuation and frustration with a pinch of love on top.

And how about that thing with pens!? My home is filled with pens of different shapes and colors, not because I hoard them but because I barrow and never give back, which some have the audacity to call theft but so be it. In fact here's one of my evil plans: STARBUCKS! Bring them down by grand theft pens. They shall never again misspell another coffee drinker's name. Nameless cups of over-personalized coffee drinks shall never find their drinkers. Chaos will rule the waiting zones at all Starbucks stores across the world. Extra hot, non-fat, caramel machiatto with added, chemical, chocolate bomb shit will get ice cold sitting next to a melting , light ice, extra sweetened, tiramisu frappachino with 3 pumps of pumpkin spice on a single pump base of raspberry syrup.  All because I very sneakily will have hacked into their universal, cup naming game with my excessive borrowing of barista pens.

Brilliant? Why yes, thank you.

With that being said, I don't think I am ready just yet to accept that I report instead of write. Susan! I might occasionally find it excruciatingly painful to transcend what lies within the realms of my pink, little brain onto a big, blue piece of paper (if you're really, really smart, you'll see the analogy here). But that doesn't mean I am a reporter! I am a storyteller. If a block occurs that means stories haven't been lived yet.  To fix this problem, one simply steps away from one's laptop - or trash bag in my case- and goes out to live the story -not research it-, come back and tell it. I'm on the same page as Susan, just a different book. 

Flamenko Ole Oleee

1 Nisan'la 2 Nisan arasinda

1 trenin icinde bir yerde

Bu gece flamenko dinledim. Dans da izleyecegimi dusunmustum davete evet demeden once ama mekana vardigimda sadece muzik oldugunu anladim. Mekan dedigim de Nublu. Bilenler bilir; burasi hala Manhattan mi diyerek supheye dusmenize sebep olan, uzaaak bir diyarin en uzak kosesi. Ayagimda da ilk defa giydigim, altin sarisi pabuclarim vardi.

Yeni aldiginiz ayakkabilar icin ne denir bilirsiniz: Evde giy once, ac. Giydim ben de ama evde acmaya degil, maratonda kosmaya giymisim istemeden. Metroyla Financial District'ten once East Village'a, hatta East Village otesi; Alphabet City'ye, ordan da yine metroyla West Village ve son olarak Upper West'e gitme curretini nereden buldum trenin icinde eve donmekte oldugum su saniyelerde bile hala emin degilim. Zaten F veya J metro hatlarinin dahil oldugu herhangi bir planin mutlu sonla bitemeyecegini artik uzman bir New Yorklu olarak cok iyi biliyorum. Ama yine de yeni aldigim ayakkabilarim ayagimda butun bunlari yaptim. Flamenko seviyor olmaliyim.

Hakkinda yazacak cok tip var suan trende. Geceyle gunduz arasinda binilen trenlerde esine sik rastlanan bir durum. Ilginc karakterler gunduz ozellikle evden cikmiyor sanki. Gunduz kural seven insanlarin zamani. O yuzden Flamenko konseri geceye konmustur belki de. Iyi ki de oyle cunku obur turlu ben kacirirdim.

Gunduz ben isinde gucunde, evli barkli  ve benzeri tanidik ikilemelerle sifatlandirilabilecek bir kadinim cunku. Sabah kalkip ise falan gidiyorum. Onemli degil. Daha sadece 30 yasindayim ne de olsa. Biraz daha hayati ertelemeyi goze alabilirim falan...

Yeter ki geceleri bana biraksinlar. Gece ikilemelerle tanimlamasinlar beni. Mumkunse tek bir kelimeyle anlatilabilecek kadar carpici olayim bir anda. Ama hemen gelmesin akla o kelime. Beni bir sindirmesi gereksin once tanimlayanin. Soyle br dursun. Iciyorsa bir sigara yaksin, icmiyorsa da ic ceksin biraz. Sonra gulsun hafif buruk. "O"...desin...kurallari sevmez.

Bu gece kural istemedim hayatimda. O yuzden isten gec ciktim. Flamenko dinlemek istedim. Fazla fazla yollar yurudum. J diye bir metroya bindim. Az biraz dans ettim, once saga sola sallandim daha dogrusu. Sonra baktim muzisyen kaybetti kendini; elleri gitar calarken ayagi dans etmeye, gozleri koklamaya ve kulaklari dusunmeye basladi, ben de biraktim onu bunu. Ispanyolca sarkilar soyledim. Simdi beraber Madrid'e gitsek bir kotu sandvic alacak kadar anlatamam derdimi. (Sunu yapabilirim o ayri: Una cerveza por favor)

Yetmedi Olee, OLEEEEEE diye bagirdim bu gece. Muzik durdugunda anca fark ettim; gunduzlerin kuralci isiklari altinda solmus ruhum. Gece yeni kaliplara giren bedenimin icinde az biraz acildi ciceklerim. Ve tabi karar verdim flamenko dersleri aliyorum. Ani cikislari hic sevmem.

New York, New York...Nedir bu kadar vazgecilmez yapan sanki bu sehri diye soran biri daha cikarsa karsima yakin bir zamanda, flamenkosu diyecegim bu sefer de. Sacmalik! diyecek sorunun sahibi. Kucumseyecek belki cevabimi. Belki de deli oldugumdan endise edip yavasca yanimdan uzaklasir. Boylece sehir kendi kafasinda flamenko yapan, Oleee, OLEEE diye bagiran, altin rengi ayakkabili kucuk kadinlara ve ancak geceleri canlanan renkli ruhlara kalir. Iyi olur.

WHO AM I, CAT?

I don't know about you but I often ask myself a series of fundamental questions about existentialism that are very hard for me to answer. They always begin with the same one: "Who am I?"

Trust me; not knowing the answer to this one kills your buzz right from the beginning. I mean I know bits and pieces about myself and my existence I guess. Things like I cannot continue doing what I am doing on a Word file before I put my paragraphs in perfect lining - Word calls this justifying funny enough - and selecting Arial as my font. 12 points of course, I mean who would dare argue that...Only after then I can peacefully keep at my daily business. Does that hint at anything about who I am? Probably it does a little yeah. But such granular level of detail is not what I am after, is it? I want to reach the bigger answer. You know, the one that makes crowds go "Wow! I would want to be that person, sure!" or make readers say softly inside "I totally identify with this woman. Oh my! It's like she sees right through me!" all the while their eyes are racing from one line to the next. Lines that I wrote. That's the kind of grandiose answer I am looking for when I wake up at 6.45am, sit straight on my bed staring into my cat's hungry eyes and ask who the fuck am I, kitty?

She doesn't know either.

My husband and I were studying on potential questions he might get asked at a very important job interview he was prepping for. After all the generic, empty questions that future bosses take special pride in asking you, we ended up with a question that I rather like and would definitely ask if I ever became a stupid boss some day. I hope you already have an idea of what that question was by now. I mean you have been reading for 335 words already. We thought it could go along the lines of:

"So tell us a little bit about yourself. Who are you?" Instead of being stupefied like I am every morning in front of my cat, he would be well prepared with his very intelligent answer and say:

"Well who am I you ask eh? It's not going to be a simple answer future boss. I am a long list of adjectives and nouns and highly likely even verbs. So if you're ready for it, hang on to your hats and hear this out! I am a lover, a husband, a son, a brother, an athlete, a yogi, a New Yorker, an Upper West Sider, a Turk, heck even an American, a cyclist, a redditist, a cat owner, a former dog owner, a future dog owner, a futboller, an avid reader, a gym member, a subway rider, a car driver, a truck driver, a motorcyclist, a shopper, a patron, a renter, a neighbor, a gentleman, a runner, a colleague, a boss, an employee, an employer, a flower kid, a pragmatic, an engineer, a romantic, a sentimentalist, a skater, an animal lover, a nature enthusiast, a traveler, a  tourist, a museum goer, a curious mind, a tired body, a vulnerable hearth, a kid, a parent, an uncle, a music listener, a musician, a class president, a friend, a best friend, a boyfriend, a student, a grad student, a scholarship student, a store clerk, a sales consultant, an account executive, an early bird, an all-nighter, opera goer, concert goer, movie goer, ballet goer, a dance admirer, a show stopper, a dancer, a groom,  a wedding attendee, a best-man, a swimmer, a beach body boy, a couch potato, a chic man in a suite, a bum without shoes, a well groomed man, a depressed man, an  abandoned child, a supportive child, a casualty of a broken home, a survivor of a bad father, a super hero, a burden, a nephew, a brother in law, a critique, a criticized, a story teller, a puzzle solver, a winner, a loser, a salesman, a customer, an entrepreneur, a developer, a learner, a teacher, a volunteer, a for-profit capitalist, a cigar smoker, a healthy eating enthusiast, a carb loader, a miserable failure, and of course a huge success. Like I said, not a simple man. "

These were only some of the things that came to my mind at one blink of an eye. Imagine what any other person, whose lives he has ever touched, could have said about who he was. His mom, his best friends, his worst enemies..I mean I don't even want to begin. How many people do we get in contact with throughout our entire lives? 73,089 on average? Probably, I'm pretty good with numbers. So they could all help add to this list and at some point the answer to this interview question would become a book of its own, right? We can't do that at this interview. He won't have time. His boss will lose interest. He won't get the job. He has to summarize, shorten, simplify. And despite the never-endingness of who he is, when you ask him, he gives you the same blank stare I give to my cat in the mornings right after I wake up and says "....I don't know...Just a man..."

Same responseless syndrome I suffer from, right? So can it really be a coincidence that I can't answer this question and so cannot my husband? Are we the only human beings on earth, who doesn't know who they are? I mean if so, it's kind of beautiful that we were able to find each other, isn't it? So romantic. However I don't believe that to be the case at all. I think nobody really, truly knows who they are. Some are just more open about it than others.

Do you know who you are? Does the answer you give to yourself really satisfy you? Or is it just an automatic one? Like when you say "Good!" to your colleague asking how you are in the morning.

Are you really good? How do you define good by the way? And do you even care that grammatically, you're supposed to say well, not good. You don't? Good. I don't either but if I ever used it in an article that was going to be published somewhere, an editor would probably shiver at a "good vs. well" mistake and potentially advise against the article altogether. Because some things are more important than others in relation to the context within which they are reviewed.

Like the real answer to the question who you are doesn't matter in an important job interview as much as the answer to  question "how will you help this company make more money?" Or if you ask a terminally ill patient what they would do with shit loads of money, they wouldn't care, would they? Money doesn't matter to them, same way my existentialist agony doesn't matter to my cat. She just wants food, ill patient to live and my husband to get that job.

World doesn't stop whirling all of a sudden when I wake up every morning not knowing who I am, nor do I stop living. We just do. But I sincerely believe that those of us who take a break from all everything and just figure this out turn out a titbit happier than the rest on last day of their lives.

Hence forth, I will find an answer to this question like I occasionally find myself having done just that. Problem is by the time I do come up with one that is acceptable by my and world's modest standards, I will probably have changed fundamentally again, as I did several times throughout my 30 years of existence and by then I will once again start waking up not really knowing the answer to "Who are you?".

Point is I don't trust people who know exactly who they are and what they want to achieve in life. If one has a clear purpose like some lame self help book might recommend, it is probably a made-up one. A fake purpose that someone else thought was giving a strong message to the world, right? Because all we care about is to look strong, to be good and to have it all, right?

Today, once again I woke up not really knowing who I am. I just don't know. I do however, know this: I will at all costs constantly avoid becoming a pretend, know-it-all person, who strives for perfectionism. Who are we perfecting ourselves for? No better yet, who are we?

Let's start every morning with that simple question until we can see that it is not simple at all. If anything, it is the exact opposite of simple. It is impossible to know that, especially in today's society where the socially acceptable norm of self changes on a weekly frequency at best. We are too lost in daily conversations, things to follow, rules to break. We're too concerned with layers and layers of bullshit when the only thing we have to figure out for ourselves is just who the fuck we are.

I don't know it. Noone will know it for me either. I have to figure that out for myself and take the necessary fall for it if I have to. 30 years of being on this earth prepared me for nothing but this. I can't promise that I will definitely find the answer but I am willing to try. If all goes to hell, I will just go back to not knowing but living anyway. Isn't that what most people do anyway? But I am not most people; I am me and me wants to be discovered.

DA

New York Subway Stories #1

May 16, 2014 07:07pm

...Bu sirada yaninda oturan adam durmaksizin sakizini balon yapip patlatmakla mesguldu. Tas catlasa 30'larinda olmaliydi bu adam.

"Hey Allahim yiaa" diye gecirdi icinden.

Ciplak ayaklariyla camurlu sularda uzun esek oynayan cingene cocuklarin cignedigi gibi cigniyor sakizi igrenc herif. Kim yatar bu sulukle acaba merak ettim!? Para karsiligi yapan bulabilse bile mesela - vah yavrum- eminim bu adamdan sonra orospuluk meslegine bir sure ara verecektir zavallicik. Evet, evet! Orospu emekli eder bu adam ve sakizi...Kalk git yanimdan! Aaay! Daha gelmedik mi 72'ye!?.. Nerdeyiz biz? Burasi neresi?  Neden sakiz diye bir sey icat edilmiski sanki?..

Ic sesinin tum benligini kontrolu altina aldigi bu saniyelerde 34'e varmis olduklarini gordu. Tabiki Fulton'dan binip hemen karsisina oturmus olan o sempatik deli de tam o sirada ayaklandi. 

Yanlis anlasilmasin, 34'le bir alip veremedigi yoktu ama eger metro kullanmayi karsisindaki adam kadar iyi bilen bir baska deli daha varsa su hayatta ve bindigi metroyu icinde sizip kalmak icin degil de gercekten bir yerden bir yere ulasmak icin kullaniyorsa, 34 kesinlikle o kisinin duragi olmaliydi. Orasi delilerin parti mahallesiydi cunku. Bir de Macys'in. KI Macy's e gidenlerin yuzde seksenbesi turist, geri kalan yuzde on besi de deli olduguna gore (yuzdelerden cok iyi anlardi) problem yoktu. 34 delilerin ve Macyscilerin mahallesiydi. 

Bu derin dusunceyi kafasinda onayladigi saniyelerde PAT!? diye bir sesle yeniden icinde bulundugu korkunc metroya dondu. Cingene adam sakizi sisirip sisirip pat PAT PAT!? diye patlatmaya devam ediyordu. Tam adama donup dik dik "omrumu patlattin yeter!" bakisi atmak uzere kafasini cevirmisti ki 72'ye varmis olduklarini fark etti. 

Cin+cingene fuzyon iskencesi burada sona ererken karsi platformdan gelen 1 trenini gordu. Her seye ragmen simdi ne gibi manyaklar gorecegini dusunerek heyecanlanmadan edemedi. 

DA.

Zor Is Komedi

Ingilizce kitap okumaktan biktim deyip elime gecen ilk Turkce kitabin Ingilizce aslindan ceviri bir kitap oldugu gecenin hayatin bir cilvesi olmasi gerektigine inanip, herhangi bir dilde hicbir kitap okumadan uyumaya karar veriyorum. 

Cem Yilmaz anlatmisti sanirim showlarinin birinde, ya da Sahan Gokbakar. Cok da fark etmez.

"Komedi nedir?"

Nedir?..

"Komedi, icmek icin plastik siseden bardaga su koyup sonra plastik sisenin dibinde kalan suyu icmektir."

Kisinin ilgisini belli bir amaca dogru yonlendirip sonra beklenmeyeni yaparak sasirtmak miymis yani ? Olabilir. Ama eger oyleyse o zaman belki de hayat beni bu gece guldurmek istemistir. 

Gulmedim.

Kaldi ki komedinin pet siseyle, cam bardakla falan aciklanmaya calisilmasi da hosuma gitmemisti. Her seyi de baside indirgemeye, icinden derinligi sokup atmaya gerek yok. 

Bazen birak derin kalsin.

Ata Demirer'in komediye yaklasimini o yuzden sevdim sanirim. Gecenlerde oturdu ya cilingir sofrasina Ece Temelkuran'la, hani oku bitir bir daha oku bir roportaj cikti ortaya. Orda demis trajedi kolay, zor olan kotu olaylarin icindeki espriyi gormek diye.

Cok hakli, suan esprisini kaybettim bulamiyorum hayatimin. Hayir, sikildigim Ingilizce kitaplari Amerika'da gecirdigim uzun sureye, sonra elime gecen ilk Turkce kitabin da Ingilizce'den ceviri bir kitap olmasini Turkiye ozleminin ikinci elligine, yapmacikligina ve geciciligine gonderme olarak kullanmiyorum. Hele hele hicbir sey okumadan uyumaya karar vermis olmamin iki kita ortasinda kalmis, caresizlikten ne saga ne sola gidemeyip okyanusun dibini boylama hissine benzetmekle yakindan ilgim olmaz. 

Ben sadece trajedi kolay diyorum. Komediye saygi duyuyorum ve o yuzden ne okuyorum ne de uyuyorum. 

Yaziyorum.

DA

642 Things to Write About from Chronicle Books

So Chronicle Books, which happens to be one of my favorite publishers for Sunday fun-time reads, recently came out with a self-written book to uplift aspiring (or even established) writers' creativity and maybe even help unblock them if they are feeling that way.

I love it.

Love the idea as well as the execution. It was prepared overnight with ideas pouring in from the writers at The San Francisco Writers' Grotto. Overnight, mind you. 

There literally are 642 topics you could write about. The minute I set my eyes on this book, I started filling its pages with stories. Here's one to begin with. 

A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live.

Dear basil leaf,

You cannot die on me. I brought you home from Trader Joe's last June because of how you smelled. Your energizing scent took me back to my summers in Italy, where we would sit at the garden as a whole family doing nothing but watching the dog being lazy and cooling off in the shade with music in the background coming through the open door all the while smelling fresh basil.

I wanted to watch you and to pick your oldest and largest leaves to put on my pasta on those rare occasions we cooked. But I was most excited about the idea of sitting next to you on the fire escape and reading to you on hot summer nights. 

Then the heat wave came. 

I went out two nights in a row because I just couldn't stand being at home. Wasted on both occasions, I came home too carefree; too tired to care, really. 

I forgot to water you even though I secretly knew those nights must have been when you were most thirsty. I guess I was testing your limits, like I test myself sometimes...

Fucking heatwave, fucking tests...
You passed.

I love you now more than ever and I promise to never test you again.

Of those silky, vibrant, green leaves, only one little, light green, baby leaf survived today; telling me that it's my turn to face the test now. It's my potential to survive that needs fulfilling.

If you live, so do I. 

You cannot die on me. Not today, not in this life time. Together, we will survive and thrive for an eternity and then some more.

DA

They also published another version of the same book for younger writers and even another one for artists, who like to draw.

What would you write? Want to find out?

Dee