Dating follow-up
For those of you who read my views about speed dating, don’t get excited, I haven’t yet changed them (but perhaps I should!). The follow up is not about a date from that event.
About 10 days ago I met someone through ‘natural ways’…started talking at a bar, got on really well and all that, exchanged numbers, texted each other a few times and spoke on the phone on Friday arranging tentatively to meet up tonight, his only night off these days.
Come 6pm, I’d finished my work for the day but he still hadn’t called. So, I called, to give him a piece of my mind. Series of supposed excuses about how he’d worked a 16 hour shift the night before, how tired he was, he had to wait for a new flat mate to come that night blah blah blah. Who is that busy to not find a few seconds to at least send a text?! I can’t believe any of it. He called back later in the evening begging forgiveness. I did give him a hard time of course. But why?
Why? Because, to be honest, I liked him. I am not having a self-loathing trip like ‘oh dear, I am not worthy, he doesn’t like me’. I’ve gone over that stage in my life. But I do feel like a small child whose new toy has been taken away before she got bored with it.
So, maybe, I deserve this. Maybe people only treat you the way you feel about them: like a toy in this case. A toy that they get bored before you do!
What gets me is the lack of honesty. Why can’t people say they don’t want to see you again? Why can’t they just not pick up the phone when you call or not reply to your text? Why can’t they just not call back when they say they will? So that you at least know that they are, for sure, not interested. Why bother give me all that story.
I am angry with him for not respecting me enough even to ignore me. I am angry with myself for investing energy and time in the possibility of meeting up tonight – I had to pass on one arrangement and cancel another! How weak am I? Why do I need human toys so much?
I called a friend who simply said ‘forget him’. I will. Of course, I will. People who don’t want to spend time on you are not worth wasting your time on. I know that. But this lack of honesty, this lack of courage, this lack of balls even by men who are fully endowed is disappointing me. It is making me feel despair about the (possibly eternal) state of humanity. Why am I so bloody transparent? Why am I so honest? Why, when the world functions in implied words and actions rather than explicit showing of cards, do I waste my energy trying to stand up and remain honest? When am I going to grow up and stop this stupid belief that honesty isn’t that difficult?
Any answers? No? Don’t worry. I feel better for writing it already. I just hope my Dad is not reading this!
Monday, August 21, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
This entry is inspired by Stevie’s comment to the entry on ‘appreciation’ (01 August 2006)…
First of all, thank you for your very kind comment. I do hope you’ll come back and bore me with the details of how what I wrote resonates with your life!
Stevie says he was looking at the blog while at work. This reminded of a favourite poem from one of my favourite poets: John S Hall (http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=96884) Although I only have one of his books, it’s enough to declare him a favourite…he is that good!
So here is the poem Stevie’s comment reminded me:
TAKE STUFF FROM WORK
Take stuff from work. It’s the best way to feel better about your job. Never buy pens or pencils or paper. Take ‘em from work. Rubber bands, paper clips, memo pads, folders – take ‘em from work. It’s the best way to feel better about your low pay and appalling working conditions.
Take an ashtray – they got plenty. Take coat hangers. Take a – take a trash can. Why buy a file cabinet? Why buy a phone? Why buy a personal computer or word processor? Take ‘em from work.
I took a whole desk from the last place I worked. They never noticed and it looks great in my apartment. Take an electric pencil sharpener. Take a case of white-out; you might need it one day. It’s your duty as an oppressed worker to steal from your exploiters. Take stuff from work. And fuck off on the company time. I wrote this at work. They’re paying me to write about stuff I steal from them. Life is good.
First of all, thank you for your very kind comment. I do hope you’ll come back and bore me with the details of how what I wrote resonates with your life!
Stevie says he was looking at the blog while at work. This reminded of a favourite poem from one of my favourite poets: John S Hall (http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=96884) Although I only have one of his books, it’s enough to declare him a favourite…he is that good!
So here is the poem Stevie’s comment reminded me:
TAKE STUFF FROM WORK
Take stuff from work. It’s the best way to feel better about your job. Never buy pens or pencils or paper. Take ‘em from work. Rubber bands, paper clips, memo pads, folders – take ‘em from work. It’s the best way to feel better about your low pay and appalling working conditions.
Take an ashtray – they got plenty. Take coat hangers. Take a – take a trash can. Why buy a file cabinet? Why buy a phone? Why buy a personal computer or word processor? Take ‘em from work.
I took a whole desk from the last place I worked. They never noticed and it looks great in my apartment. Take an electric pencil sharpener. Take a case of white-out; you might need it one day. It’s your duty as an oppressed worker to steal from your exploiters. Take stuff from work. And fuck off on the company time. I wrote this at work. They’re paying me to write about stuff I steal from them. Life is good.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
“There is no turkey in you, you are one hot chick!”
Was what one of the judges said to Meliz, the contestant at the ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’: the new talent show on BBC1 aiming to find the star of The Sound of Music planned for the West End.
Meliz is 23, studied music and is from a Turkish-Cypriot family (http://www.bbc.co.uk/maria/marias/meliz.shtml): The first from the community to make to a prime time show for her talent. I emphasise ‘talent’ since not only she seems to have heaps of it but also Sezer who was in Big Brother earlier this year and Kemal who was in last year are not in the same league.
Before the show, I thought it was my duty as a Turk-Brit to vote for her. As the show started, I hesitated between being fair and voting for the best and being loyal to my community in its largest definition. But once she started singing, there was no hesitation. She was absolutely amazing. She is not only extremely beautiful but also really humble and sweet. Her reaction upon hearing that she was through was the loveliest response: just a huge smile and squeezed shut eyes; none of the extravert reactions of some of the others. Although they announced her as ‘sexy Maria’, she showed that she is also humble and sweet like Maria should be.
And what a choice of song it was! Son of a Preacher Man – sung by so many strong vocals, not least Dusty Springfield and Aretha Franklin. Andrew Lloyd Webber said it best: “You out Dusty'd Dusty Springfield," adding, "You acted the song brilliantly."
On the website of the show, she says Rizzo from Grease (played by Stockhard Channing) is one of her favourite characters because she is gutsy. She is probably my the favourite character in fact. Grease was the first film I saw in a cinema when I was about 10. I watched the film countless times since and like her more and more every time because she knows who she is even though she doesn’t fit in with the norm. Meliz would be brilliant as Rizzo. So I finish by writing the lyrics of her best song of the film ‘There are worse things I could do’ as this is the song for all independent women. Oh, and of course, I wish Meliz all the best. Even if they don’t choose you as Maria, dear Meliz, you certainly are a STAR!
There are worse things I could do,
Than go with a boy or two.
Even though the neighborhood thinks I'm trashy,
And no good,
I suppose it could be true,
But there are worse things I could do.
I could flirt with all the guys,
Smile at them and bat my eyes.
Press against them when we dance,
Make them think they stand a chance,
Then refuse to see it through.
That's a thing I'd never do.
I could stay home every night,
Wait around for Mr. Right.
Take cold showers every day,
And throw my life away,
On a dream that won't come true.
I could hurt someone like me,
Out of spite or jealousy.
I don’t steal and I don’t lie,
But I can feel and I can cry.
A fact I'll bet you never knew.
But to cry in front of you,
That's the worse thing I could do
Was what one of the judges said to Meliz, the contestant at the ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’: the new talent show on BBC1 aiming to find the star of The Sound of Music planned for the West End.
Meliz is 23, studied music and is from a Turkish-Cypriot family (http://www.bbc.co.uk/maria/marias/meliz.shtml): The first from the community to make to a prime time show for her talent. I emphasise ‘talent’ since not only she seems to have heaps of it but also Sezer who was in Big Brother earlier this year and Kemal who was in last year are not in the same league.
Before the show, I thought it was my duty as a Turk-Brit to vote for her. As the show started, I hesitated between being fair and voting for the best and being loyal to my community in its largest definition. But once she started singing, there was no hesitation. She was absolutely amazing. She is not only extremely beautiful but also really humble and sweet. Her reaction upon hearing that she was through was the loveliest response: just a huge smile and squeezed shut eyes; none of the extravert reactions of some of the others. Although they announced her as ‘sexy Maria’, she showed that she is also humble and sweet like Maria should be.
And what a choice of song it was! Son of a Preacher Man – sung by so many strong vocals, not least Dusty Springfield and Aretha Franklin. Andrew Lloyd Webber said it best: “You out Dusty'd Dusty Springfield," adding, "You acted the song brilliantly."
On the website of the show, she says Rizzo from Grease (played by Stockhard Channing) is one of her favourite characters because she is gutsy. She is probably my the favourite character in fact. Grease was the first film I saw in a cinema when I was about 10. I watched the film countless times since and like her more and more every time because she knows who she is even though she doesn’t fit in with the norm. Meliz would be brilliant as Rizzo. So I finish by writing the lyrics of her best song of the film ‘There are worse things I could do’ as this is the song for all independent women. Oh, and of course, I wish Meliz all the best. Even if they don’t choose you as Maria, dear Meliz, you certainly are a STAR!
There are worse things I could do,
Than go with a boy or two.
Even though the neighborhood thinks I'm trashy,
And no good,
I suppose it could be true,
But there are worse things I could do.
I could flirt with all the guys,
Smile at them and bat my eyes.
Press against them when we dance,
Make them think they stand a chance,
Then refuse to see it through.
That's a thing I'd never do.
I could stay home every night,
Wait around for Mr. Right.
Take cold showers every day,
And throw my life away,
On a dream that won't come true.
I could hurt someone like me,
Out of spite or jealousy.
I don’t steal and I don’t lie,
But I can feel and I can cry.
A fact I'll bet you never knew.
But to cry in front of you,
That's the worse thing I could do
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Should we trust our instinct?
Asked the woman sitting at the next table…’but isn’t instinct just about fancying someone?’ she added without waiting for my answer.
It was at a speed dating event.
I walked in, met up with my friend, got a drink and surveyed the room. There was no one of interest. Terrible to be so quick to form a judgement perhaps, but isn’t that the basis of the entire speed dating industry?
You must have heard about, if not been to one of, these events. Everyone gets a number as they arrive. Women take the table of their number, and men circulate spending three minutes at each. At the end of each ‘date’ you are meant to score everyone: yes, no, friend.
It’s efficient for the first round of screening. You get to meet tens of potentials in one evening. Three minutes per date are enough to know if you definitely don’t want to see the person again. But then if you like anyone you meet, you still have to spend at least a couple of hours trying to look interested and be nice even if you both know there will never be a second date.
All participants are potentially good catches: bankers, architects, graphic designers, mathematicians, doctors and so on.
They are not desperate. They just know how easy it is to be young(ish) with a lot to offer but not meet someone to offer anything to, despite living with 8 million other people in this city and no matter how outgoing and socially busy you are.
But, it’s not natural, again as the woman at the next table said. It’s scripted, careographed and staged…even if the script writers and actors are the same, the dates are by no means spontaneous which takes the joy out of them. Smiles hide the anxiety to look attractive enough and judge the other person all within three minutes.
But the natural is difficult. The odds of meeting someone worth your offerings are very low and that’s why the industry is so successful.
Should we continue with, what seems in bad times, near impossible odds? Should we wait for our fate even if it means accepting the possibility that there’ll be no one for us? NO, screams a voice inside. You are of a generation of women who are truly beginning to be free, to determine their own lives and defy fate others used to decide for them. So, sacrifice an evening, see beyond the staged 3-minutes and give everyone a chance.
There is another voice inside, though, one who says don’t let go of the dream of chance meetings. If it’s meant to be, it will be no matter how hard you try to make it happen or stop it. In fact, do we even really need a significant other to enjoy life? Can we enjoy life with a significant other, if we can’t enjoy it on our own? So, don’t sacrifice an evening, go see some art, dance, sing, enjoy the life that you have!
When it comes to meeting people: perhaps the question is not about how you meet someone but what you look for when you do. Should we trust our instinct or should we judge whether the man / woman opposite is good husband / wife material? Are they two different things as the woman at the next table implied? Can there be happy dating, let alone marriage, without a good dose of desire?! I seriously doubt it.
My initial instinct was right on this occasion. No one was interesting enough. I don’t mean attractive but genuinely interesting. The first three questions of all of them (and there was not time for a fourth one) were how my name is pronounced, where it and/or my accent is from and what I do for a living. Fair enough I guess but boring nonetheless…What did I ask? Not much…the same questions back – minus the one about pronunciation. So I was as much to blame, and as I guessed at the time, I only got two ‘friend’ ticks afterwards…Thank you, guys, but I have enough friends, as I am sure you do.
Thanks also to H – who has been an excellent source of potential answers as always.
Asked the woman sitting at the next table…’but isn’t instinct just about fancying someone?’ she added without waiting for my answer.
It was at a speed dating event.
I walked in, met up with my friend, got a drink and surveyed the room. There was no one of interest. Terrible to be so quick to form a judgement perhaps, but isn’t that the basis of the entire speed dating industry?
You must have heard about, if not been to one of, these events. Everyone gets a number as they arrive. Women take the table of their number, and men circulate spending three minutes at each. At the end of each ‘date’ you are meant to score everyone: yes, no, friend.
It’s efficient for the first round of screening. You get to meet tens of potentials in one evening. Three minutes per date are enough to know if you definitely don’t want to see the person again. But then if you like anyone you meet, you still have to spend at least a couple of hours trying to look interested and be nice even if you both know there will never be a second date.
All participants are potentially good catches: bankers, architects, graphic designers, mathematicians, doctors and so on.
They are not desperate. They just know how easy it is to be young(ish) with a lot to offer but not meet someone to offer anything to, despite living with 8 million other people in this city and no matter how outgoing and socially busy you are.
But, it’s not natural, again as the woman at the next table said. It’s scripted, careographed and staged…even if the script writers and actors are the same, the dates are by no means spontaneous which takes the joy out of them. Smiles hide the anxiety to look attractive enough and judge the other person all within three minutes.
But the natural is difficult. The odds of meeting someone worth your offerings are very low and that’s why the industry is so successful.
Should we continue with, what seems in bad times, near impossible odds? Should we wait for our fate even if it means accepting the possibility that there’ll be no one for us? NO, screams a voice inside. You are of a generation of women who are truly beginning to be free, to determine their own lives and defy fate others used to decide for them. So, sacrifice an evening, see beyond the staged 3-minutes and give everyone a chance.
There is another voice inside, though, one who says don’t let go of the dream of chance meetings. If it’s meant to be, it will be no matter how hard you try to make it happen or stop it. In fact, do we even really need a significant other to enjoy life? Can we enjoy life with a significant other, if we can’t enjoy it on our own? So, don’t sacrifice an evening, go see some art, dance, sing, enjoy the life that you have!
When it comes to meeting people: perhaps the question is not about how you meet someone but what you look for when you do. Should we trust our instinct or should we judge whether the man / woman opposite is good husband / wife material? Are they two different things as the woman at the next table implied? Can there be happy dating, let alone marriage, without a good dose of desire?! I seriously doubt it.
My initial instinct was right on this occasion. No one was interesting enough. I don’t mean attractive but genuinely interesting. The first three questions of all of them (and there was not time for a fourth one) were how my name is pronounced, where it and/or my accent is from and what I do for a living. Fair enough I guess but boring nonetheless…What did I ask? Not much…the same questions back – minus the one about pronunciation. So I was as much to blame, and as I guessed at the time, I only got two ‘friend’ ticks afterwards…Thank you, guys, but I have enough friends, as I am sure you do.
Thanks also to H – who has been an excellent source of potential answers as always.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Fuerzabruta at the Roundhouse
Hurry, go, see it.
See the Roundhouse in Chalk Farm for a start. Great venue with a long and varied past. As a quote from Tempest says “What is past is prologue” (from the poster on the Level 1 wall).
Fuerzabruta is something else altogether. If not in the Roundhouse, you must, I repeat, you must see it if and when it comes to where you are. That is if you can take the force, yes, the ‘brute force’ which I think the title means in Spanish. I don’t want to give anything away. No, I can’t give anything away anyway…words, however better they are than I can master could give away the show that will startle all your senses all at once.
A man walks, runs
Gets shot, blood.
Picks himself up, continues,
Gets shot again;
Passes by chairs, people, who look but don’t connect,
Rips through doors that explode in confetti, in boxes, in blasts
Runs through a diner amidst furniture in havoc,
Settles on a bed,
Dreams about a water fair up in the sky, kisses her and more,
Then it’s all a blur:
Girls running on walls,
Man and woman hovering on vertical trampolines in their finest,
Bouncing away as they try to get closer, missing, missing.
Parties, confetti, cardboard.
Huge wave out of foil passing over our heads,
Steam, rain, water, water,
At last the water fairies of our dreams,
One, then, two, three, four
The most beautiful bodies, small, delicate feet,
Wet legs, torsos, hair
Coming closer, closer, closer
We touch their faces, ankles, toes, bottoms
They look in bewilderment, my mouth still open
Again, again and again
Then rain, steam, thunder, water, water
A man walks, runs
Rips through a door that explodes two others
Up the stairs, a door beyond which there is nothing but running
Running, running, running…
F said it was about the relentless pace of modern life; ripping through, destroying everything; plastic, artificial, detached, but yearning to return to something that’s fluid, natural, caring, peaceful. I thought it was about life, death, the promised but undeliverable, unknowable beauty of afterlife. I think she is right, though.
Their website says “[Fuerzabruta] does not invent anything; does not have a purpose; it is”. I think they are right, too. They also say it does not repeat itself. So, hopefully, I haven’t spoilt anything. Hurry, go, see it and make up your mind, or just let go and enjoy.
www.fuerzabruta.net/website/fuerza_eng.html
Hurry, go, see it.
See the Roundhouse in Chalk Farm for a start. Great venue with a long and varied past. As a quote from Tempest says “What is past is prologue” (from the poster on the Level 1 wall).
Fuerzabruta is something else altogether. If not in the Roundhouse, you must, I repeat, you must see it if and when it comes to where you are. That is if you can take the force, yes, the ‘brute force’ which I think the title means in Spanish. I don’t want to give anything away. No, I can’t give anything away anyway…words, however better they are than I can master could give away the show that will startle all your senses all at once.
A man walks, runs
Gets shot, blood.
Picks himself up, continues,
Gets shot again;
Passes by chairs, people, who look but don’t connect,
Rips through doors that explode in confetti, in boxes, in blasts
Runs through a diner amidst furniture in havoc,
Settles on a bed,
Dreams about a water fair up in the sky, kisses her and more,
Then it’s all a blur:
Girls running on walls,
Man and woman hovering on vertical trampolines in their finest,
Bouncing away as they try to get closer, missing, missing.
Parties, confetti, cardboard.
Huge wave out of foil passing over our heads,
Steam, rain, water, water,
At last the water fairies of our dreams,
One, then, two, three, four
The most beautiful bodies, small, delicate feet,
Wet legs, torsos, hair
Coming closer, closer, closer
We touch their faces, ankles, toes, bottoms
They look in bewilderment, my mouth still open
Again, again and again
Then rain, steam, thunder, water, water
A man walks, runs
Rips through a door that explodes two others
Up the stairs, a door beyond which there is nothing but running
Running, running, running…
F said it was about the relentless pace of modern life; ripping through, destroying everything; plastic, artificial, detached, but yearning to return to something that’s fluid, natural, caring, peaceful. I thought it was about life, death, the promised but undeliverable, unknowable beauty of afterlife. I think she is right, though.
Their website says “[Fuerzabruta] does not invent anything; does not have a purpose; it is”. I think they are right, too. They also say it does not repeat itself. So, hopefully, I haven’t spoilt anything. Hurry, go, see it and make up your mind, or just let go and enjoy.
www.fuerzabruta.net/website/fuerza_eng.html
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Appreciation is not just a difficult word to spell!
Whenever I am down, I count all the things in life I am lucky about…I have all my sensory faculties, limbs and organs in good working order; have a job; have a flat; am not rich but not wanting for money; have a few creative hobbies, a scattered but good family, and good friends etc. etc. An annoying habit this, counting one’s blessings, at least for those who mock me for being such a Polyanna.
Despite appearances, until recently I didn’t truly mean any of it. It was all like Mary Poppins says ‘a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down’. I never forgot how bitter the medicine was. So much so that I’ve come to believe that the Robbie Williams lyrics “I don’t wanna die but I ain't keen on living either” were the best description of my life if I ever allowed myself to admit it.
But what I’ve, only recently, allowed myself to admit is something else: that there really is nothing to complain about my life. Not only that I am healthy and have enough money but I don’t live in a war zone afraid of my life. I have control over my destiny in more ways than one.
And as soon as I allowed myself to feel this, lots of good things began to happen as if my wishing alone was enough to make them happen.
I think it started a few weeks ago, when I spent a weekend with the extended family of my goddaughter, S. We played with the kids during the day and spent the night sitting under a tree, sipping wine and talking about all sorts of things while being bitten to buggery by gigantic mosquitoes (and that’s in Surrey!). But I felt part of that family and the love we shared. We even saw our first glow worm together…a good sign.
Weekend before last, I went to Ibiza to visit my friend, H, out of sheer desperation to get away. I expected a friendly home and a good host but she exceeded all my expectations. Not only she was a good host, but also a much better friend towards me than I had hoped. We spent four days sleeping (deepest sleeps I had in years), eating (only a little I must add), drinking (with moderation), dancing (with no bounds at least one of the nights), playing chess (H taught me), swimming as the sun set and talking about life and love.
It’s not an easy thing to talk about love with other people. They either get bored or anxious either because the conversation can truly be boring and repetitive or because you tell truths that they cannot admit even to themselves. H made it possible for me to say thinks (intentional misspelling) I didn’t even realise I was thinking – thinks that got me thinking even more. Even when she didn’t agree, instead of disagreeing she said ‘hmm, interesting, there is something here I shall think about’…the rare trait of a great listener…thank you H!
I came back to London far too soon…as the fox must return to the fur shop (a Turkish saying). A couple of days later I received an email from Easy Jet informing me that my flight to Budapest in a couple of weeks’ time was cancelled and offering me a full refund for the entire journey. I snapped the offer since even though I wanted to go and see the city and attend the music festival, my heart was not in it. I didn’t really want to go and couldn’t have wished for more than a full refund!
When someone wishes something and it happens, they say (at least in Turkey), I wish I wished something else! Why?! Imagine someone giving you a present and you telling them “hmmm nice and it was in my birthday list and all, but I wish you got me something else”. Imagine how that person must feel. That’s how God, energy, universe whatever you call it, must feel. No wonder not many of our wishes come true….we ungrateful gits don’t deserve them, that’s why!
Friday night, I went to a sufi music concert. It was very moving and the amateur group that was playing and singing had improved immensely since I last saw them two years ago. They announced that they would finish the night with a hymn (or ilahi which is the Muslim equivalent). I am not religious…or rather I don’t practice. But there is this one ilahi about a conversation between the musician and a yellow flower which my grandmother had taught me when I was a little girl and which I still remember. I thought ‘I wish they sang Sari Cicek’….law and behold, that’s what they sang which made me happier than I would have if this had happened a few weeks ago…so happy that I didn’t mind going to a restaurant and having dinner by myself…in the middle of Islington, all on my own, on a Friday night, surrounded by groups of friends, families and dates. I would have done it anytime anyway but would have had a bitter sweet taste in my mouth. This time, I experienced a calm happiness about sitting there on my own, making notes for myself about lucky things in life as I watched others with a hidden smile on my face.
The weekend was spent at a wedding, that of F and R who’d met on holiday in a Central American country five years ago; then spent most of the time since living in their respective countries, only meeting for a few weeks every few months. The groom said he was so lucky to have met the bride who changed his life and opened up all sorts of possibilities for him that he never thought possible. There is love after all, so long as one has faith in it. I didn’t feel left out, lonely…despite dining at the table with two of the siblings of the groom and one ex boyfriend. Considering I am the ex of one of the groom's brothers, I felt joy and luck having met these people and not only having been invited to share their joy but also be sitting in a still-close-to-family table.
Even this morning when I turned up at work the first thought in my head was not ‘oh, damn, it’s Monday morning and I am still tired’, even though I was still tired, but ‘how lucky I am to be able to come to work as late as 10.30’!
What’s happening to me? More importantly where is this entry going? Nowhere particular. I just wanted to share how lucky I’ve been feeling. It’s as if I write, this feeling will become even more real.
I do have these pangs of doubt every now and then: like if I allow myself to feel happiness and luck for any prolonged time, i.e. more than a few moments, it will either be taken away from me or I will be forgoing something better. But who, why should it go away? And if it did, wouldn’t it come back again? What could be better? Yes, I could have more material goods, I could travel more, not have to work, I could have a family, a loving husbands, kids. But would having these suddenly make me appreciate them truly, or would I still be either afraid or unsatisfied?
Yes, I guess that’s the key word: appreciate. That’s the change, that’s the difference. It’s not that my life has changed significantly. It’s not that I was granted my wishes by a gene or found a four-leaved clover. It’s just that something changed in me to make me see my life, myself differently. And finally, I begin to appreciate myself; not because I am special but just because I simply am. Maybe this was the change I’ve been waiting for a long time. I just hope I’ll now get over the fear that I jinxed it all by announcing it through this entry. Please, please, let me wallow in this appreciation for a while.
Whenever I am down, I count all the things in life I am lucky about…I have all my sensory faculties, limbs and organs in good working order; have a job; have a flat; am not rich but not wanting for money; have a few creative hobbies, a scattered but good family, and good friends etc. etc. An annoying habit this, counting one’s blessings, at least for those who mock me for being such a Polyanna.
Despite appearances, until recently I didn’t truly mean any of it. It was all like Mary Poppins says ‘a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down’. I never forgot how bitter the medicine was. So much so that I’ve come to believe that the Robbie Williams lyrics “I don’t wanna die but I ain't keen on living either” were the best description of my life if I ever allowed myself to admit it.
But what I’ve, only recently, allowed myself to admit is something else: that there really is nothing to complain about my life. Not only that I am healthy and have enough money but I don’t live in a war zone afraid of my life. I have control over my destiny in more ways than one.
And as soon as I allowed myself to feel this, lots of good things began to happen as if my wishing alone was enough to make them happen.
I think it started a few weeks ago, when I spent a weekend with the extended family of my goddaughter, S. We played with the kids during the day and spent the night sitting under a tree, sipping wine and talking about all sorts of things while being bitten to buggery by gigantic mosquitoes (and that’s in Surrey!). But I felt part of that family and the love we shared. We even saw our first glow worm together…a good sign.
Weekend before last, I went to Ibiza to visit my friend, H, out of sheer desperation to get away. I expected a friendly home and a good host but she exceeded all my expectations. Not only she was a good host, but also a much better friend towards me than I had hoped. We spent four days sleeping (deepest sleeps I had in years), eating (only a little I must add), drinking (with moderation), dancing (with no bounds at least one of the nights), playing chess (H taught me), swimming as the sun set and talking about life and love.
It’s not an easy thing to talk about love with other people. They either get bored or anxious either because the conversation can truly be boring and repetitive or because you tell truths that they cannot admit even to themselves. H made it possible for me to say thinks (intentional misspelling) I didn’t even realise I was thinking – thinks that got me thinking even more. Even when she didn’t agree, instead of disagreeing she said ‘hmm, interesting, there is something here I shall think about’…the rare trait of a great listener…thank you H!
I came back to London far too soon…as the fox must return to the fur shop (a Turkish saying). A couple of days later I received an email from Easy Jet informing me that my flight to Budapest in a couple of weeks’ time was cancelled and offering me a full refund for the entire journey. I snapped the offer since even though I wanted to go and see the city and attend the music festival, my heart was not in it. I didn’t really want to go and couldn’t have wished for more than a full refund!
When someone wishes something and it happens, they say (at least in Turkey), I wish I wished something else! Why?! Imagine someone giving you a present and you telling them “hmmm nice and it was in my birthday list and all, but I wish you got me something else”. Imagine how that person must feel. That’s how God, energy, universe whatever you call it, must feel. No wonder not many of our wishes come true….we ungrateful gits don’t deserve them, that’s why!
Friday night, I went to a sufi music concert. It was very moving and the amateur group that was playing and singing had improved immensely since I last saw them two years ago. They announced that they would finish the night with a hymn (or ilahi which is the Muslim equivalent). I am not religious…or rather I don’t practice. But there is this one ilahi about a conversation between the musician and a yellow flower which my grandmother had taught me when I was a little girl and which I still remember. I thought ‘I wish they sang Sari Cicek’….law and behold, that’s what they sang which made me happier than I would have if this had happened a few weeks ago…so happy that I didn’t mind going to a restaurant and having dinner by myself…in the middle of Islington, all on my own, on a Friday night, surrounded by groups of friends, families and dates. I would have done it anytime anyway but would have had a bitter sweet taste in my mouth. This time, I experienced a calm happiness about sitting there on my own, making notes for myself about lucky things in life as I watched others with a hidden smile on my face.
The weekend was spent at a wedding, that of F and R who’d met on holiday in a Central American country five years ago; then spent most of the time since living in their respective countries, only meeting for a few weeks every few months. The groom said he was so lucky to have met the bride who changed his life and opened up all sorts of possibilities for him that he never thought possible. There is love after all, so long as one has faith in it. I didn’t feel left out, lonely…despite dining at the table with two of the siblings of the groom and one ex boyfriend. Considering I am the ex of one of the groom's brothers, I felt joy and luck having met these people and not only having been invited to share their joy but also be sitting in a still-close-to-family table.
Even this morning when I turned up at work the first thought in my head was not ‘oh, damn, it’s Monday morning and I am still tired’, even though I was still tired, but ‘how lucky I am to be able to come to work as late as 10.30’!
What’s happening to me? More importantly where is this entry going? Nowhere particular. I just wanted to share how lucky I’ve been feeling. It’s as if I write, this feeling will become even more real.
I do have these pangs of doubt every now and then: like if I allow myself to feel happiness and luck for any prolonged time, i.e. more than a few moments, it will either be taken away from me or I will be forgoing something better. But who, why should it go away? And if it did, wouldn’t it come back again? What could be better? Yes, I could have more material goods, I could travel more, not have to work, I could have a family, a loving husbands, kids. But would having these suddenly make me appreciate them truly, or would I still be either afraid or unsatisfied?
Yes, I guess that’s the key word: appreciate. That’s the change, that’s the difference. It’s not that my life has changed significantly. It’s not that I was granted my wishes by a gene or found a four-leaved clover. It’s just that something changed in me to make me see my life, myself differently. And finally, I begin to appreciate myself; not because I am special but just because I simply am. Maybe this was the change I’ve been waiting for a long time. I just hope I’ll now get over the fear that I jinxed it all by announcing it through this entry. Please, please, let me wallow in this appreciation for a while.
Monday, July 17, 2006
A little cut & paste hasn’t hurt anyone!
I don’t want to make a habit of this, but it’s been too hot lately to write something (though I have a review of the Kandinsky exhibition at the Tate Modern brewing), so here is something that moved me. It was sent to me by my dear step mum (oh, how we love the phrase J). So, as it says:
Read Each One Carefully and Think About It a Second or Two
I don’t want to make a habit of this, but it’s been too hot lately to write something (though I have a review of the Kandinsky exhibition at the Tate Modern brewing), so here is something that moved me. It was sent to me by my dear step mum (oh, how we love the phrase J). So, as it says:
Read Each One Carefully and Think About It a Second or Two
- I love you not because of who you are, but because of who I am when I am with you.
- No man or woman is worth your tears, and the one who is, won't make you cry.
- Just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have.
- A true friend is someone who reaches for your hand and touches your heart.
- The worst way to miss someone is to be sitting right beside them knowing you can't have them.
- Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.
- To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.
- Don't waste your time on a man/woman, who isn't willing to waste their time on you.
- Maybe God wants us to meet a few wrong people before meeting the right one, so that when we finally meet the person, we will know how to be grateful.
- There's always going to be people that hurt you so what you have to do is keep on trusting and just be more careful about who you trust next time around.
- Make yourself a better person and know who you are, before you try and know someone else and expect them to know you.
- Don't try so hard, the best things come when you least expect them to.
REMEMBER: WHATEVER HAPPENS, HAPPENS FOR A REASON.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Oh, this London town…
…was like The South of Tennessee Williams (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennessee_Williams) today:
muggy and grey…that stifling heat, that promise of rain which is late in delivery and disappointingly short and dry upon arrival; which leaves sins and streets unwashed.
I felt like a character from A Streetcar Named Desire or The Night of the Iguana. Like Blanche DuBois or Maxine Faulk. Having seen both plays (the former on film, the latter on stage), I think I’d like to play Maxine for now (am too young for Blanche). She, unsuccessfully, hides behind laughter, flirtation, sex and bottle. She has a nice hotel, hot weather, gorgeous young lover – steps up to a good life for most but down to a pool of quick sand for her. My steps are different but I understand her position. And that’s why, and especially if it meant sharing the stage with Woody Harrelson (who played Rev T Lawrence Shannon in the West End production I saw in December last year), I would definitely take up this role!
Alas (or 'luckily' depending on your stance), London ain’t no Southern town…rain did come: it was short but wet enough, followed by brilliant sun shine.
…was like The South of Tennessee Williams (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tennessee_Williams) today:
muggy and grey…that stifling heat, that promise of rain which is late in delivery and disappointingly short and dry upon arrival; which leaves sins and streets unwashed.
I felt like a character from A Streetcar Named Desire or The Night of the Iguana. Like Blanche DuBois or Maxine Faulk. Having seen both plays (the former on film, the latter on stage), I think I’d like to play Maxine for now (am too young for Blanche). She, unsuccessfully, hides behind laughter, flirtation, sex and bottle. She has a nice hotel, hot weather, gorgeous young lover – steps up to a good life for most but down to a pool of quick sand for her. My steps are different but I understand her position. And that’s why, and especially if it meant sharing the stage with Woody Harrelson (who played Rev T Lawrence Shannon in the West End production I saw in December last year), I would definitely take up this role!
Alas (or 'luckily' depending on your stance), London ain’t no Southern town…rain did come: it was short but wet enough, followed by brilliant sun shine.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
History repeats itself…
…they say and it’s true for individuals, families as much as it is true for nations and the world. But why is it that it’s always the bad, stupid stuff that gets repeated and the good stuff has to be built anew over and over again?!
Why is it that everyone knows this and no one does anything?
Why is it that we don’t learn from our and others’ mistakes?
Why is it that even though we fail over and over again, we still think we know the best?
In fact, how is it that, some of us all the time, and all of us some of the time, have the total conviction that we know what’s best for everyone even if we have absolutely no proof of it?
How is it that we learn everything but we never learn to let others speak and to truly listen to them when they do?
Why is it that most mistakes are made and repeated because we can’t talk to each other?
Why is it that despite learning that we don’t really have to be afraid for ourselves or for others (of whatever), we still are and that fear is what locks our lips and closes our ears?
Why is it that we sometimes make the life most difficult for those we love the most and that our life is made difficult by those who love us the most?
Why is it that we assume our title entitles us to automatic respect, when we should full well know the respect needs to be earned?
Why is it that we continue to try to speak to deaf ears?
Why is it that instead of writing this, I can’t just pick up the phone and talk the person who needs to ask these questions to himself before making yet more mistakes of the same kind – the kind that made me / us sad so long and continues to make others sad, too?!
What’s the answer to all this?
…they say and it’s true for individuals, families as much as it is true for nations and the world. But why is it that it’s always the bad, stupid stuff that gets repeated and the good stuff has to be built anew over and over again?!
Why is it that everyone knows this and no one does anything?
Why is it that we don’t learn from our and others’ mistakes?
Why is it that even though we fail over and over again, we still think we know the best?
In fact, how is it that, some of us all the time, and all of us some of the time, have the total conviction that we know what’s best for everyone even if we have absolutely no proof of it?
How is it that we learn everything but we never learn to let others speak and to truly listen to them when they do?
Why is it that most mistakes are made and repeated because we can’t talk to each other?
Why is it that despite learning that we don’t really have to be afraid for ourselves or for others (of whatever), we still are and that fear is what locks our lips and closes our ears?
Why is it that we sometimes make the life most difficult for those we love the most and that our life is made difficult by those who love us the most?
Why is it that we assume our title entitles us to automatic respect, when we should full well know the respect needs to be earned?
Why is it that we continue to try to speak to deaf ears?
Why is it that instead of writing this, I can’t just pick up the phone and talk the person who needs to ask these questions to himself before making yet more mistakes of the same kind – the kind that made me / us sad so long and continues to make others sad, too?!
What’s the answer to all this?
Thursday, June 15, 2006
It’s all too fast…
It’s only been a little over 2 weeks since the last entry…but so much happnened that it felt like an age…My new year resolution was to slow down / diminish....oh, yea...
I haven’t got anything good / interesting to write right now, but wanted to write something anyway…So, what’s happened since?
I was creative (two improv shows, three more articles in the Turkish woman’s magazine);
I met all but one work deadlines (this is the first time I missed a deadline by this much - at least 6 weeks!….but the Client was fine about it which is great…learnt (once again) that missing a deadline is not the end of the world and that I should trust myself a little more);
I did what I preached (see the review of Big Stone Gap, from May 16th) – I was honest even if that meant I made myself vulnerable and, yes, surprise, surprise, I am still standing… I am much more confident in myself than I’ve ever been before…someone’s hesitation is never going to be rejection of me ever again! (especially not when I told them I wasn’t sure I wanted their heart in the first place….who is rejecting who, I ask you!)
Oh, yes, and I helped organise a friend’s 40th birthday…music, comedy, cabaret, DJs, slide shows, the lot….he worked a lot too of course and it was great fun…it was last Friday, we went to bed about 7 am…am still recovering…
The only bad thing is that I’ve put even more weight on…but have been ‘salad’ing since Monday and will hit the gym again (after a year of paying but not going) so I’ll get thinner again I am sure…
Oh dear, it's all me, me, me....but, hey, it's MY blog so it's OK for me to be self-indulgent every now and again!
OK, bye till I can find something more interesting to say….I’ve been reading the next two books after Big Stone Gap – will review them shortly…
By the way, 23rd June is my birthday… If I can't write before then, any goodwill wishes would be much appreciated :)
It’s only been a little over 2 weeks since the last entry…but so much happnened that it felt like an age…My new year resolution was to slow down / diminish....oh, yea...
I haven’t got anything good / interesting to write right now, but wanted to write something anyway…So, what’s happened since?
I was creative (two improv shows, three more articles in the Turkish woman’s magazine);
I met all but one work deadlines (this is the first time I missed a deadline by this much - at least 6 weeks!….but the Client was fine about it which is great…learnt (once again) that missing a deadline is not the end of the world and that I should trust myself a little more);
I did what I preached (see the review of Big Stone Gap, from May 16th) – I was honest even if that meant I made myself vulnerable and, yes, surprise, surprise, I am still standing… I am much more confident in myself than I’ve ever been before…someone’s hesitation is never going to be rejection of me ever again! (especially not when I told them I wasn’t sure I wanted their heart in the first place….who is rejecting who, I ask you!)
Oh, yes, and I helped organise a friend’s 40th birthday…music, comedy, cabaret, DJs, slide shows, the lot….he worked a lot too of course and it was great fun…it was last Friday, we went to bed about 7 am…am still recovering…
The only bad thing is that I’ve put even more weight on…but have been ‘salad’ing since Monday and will hit the gym again (after a year of paying but not going) so I’ll get thinner again I am sure…
Oh dear, it's all me, me, me....but, hey, it's MY blog so it's OK for me to be self-indulgent every now and again!
OK, bye till I can find something more interesting to say….I’ve been reading the next two books after Big Stone Gap – will review them shortly…
By the way, 23rd June is my birthday… If I can't write before then, any goodwill wishes would be much appreciated :)
Sunday, May 28, 2006
A commercial break…
I have no intention of advertising any product on this website but SAQI books sent me an announcement about a book ages ago which has been sitting on my desk for ages and it’s bugging me. So, here it goes.
Turkish Cookery by Sally Mustoe (ed) – see www.saqibooks.com. It features favourite recipes from Nigella Lawson, Gary Rhodes, Ainsley Harriott, Antony Worrall-Thompson, Anton Mosimann, Caludia Roden, Nevin Halici and other renowned chefs.
Recipes include that for hummous, meat pies, lamb tagine, yoghurt soup, Turkish delight, aubergine pate and dolma. Turkish chefs offer recipies for sweets, wedding banquets, street food, market food, coffee, olive oil, wines, breakfast, mese and raki and many others.
So, a great book for cooks with international taste – or for those like me who don’t really cook, a good present idea. Most importantly, the proceeds from sales will go toards providing further education for children orphaned by recent earthquakes in Turkey.
I have no intention of advertising any product on this website but SAQI books sent me an announcement about a book ages ago which has been sitting on my desk for ages and it’s bugging me. So, here it goes.
Turkish Cookery by Sally Mustoe (ed) – see www.saqibooks.com. It features favourite recipes from Nigella Lawson, Gary Rhodes, Ainsley Harriott, Antony Worrall-Thompson, Anton Mosimann, Caludia Roden, Nevin Halici and other renowned chefs.
Recipes include that for hummous, meat pies, lamb tagine, yoghurt soup, Turkish delight, aubergine pate and dolma. Turkish chefs offer recipies for sweets, wedding banquets, street food, market food, coffee, olive oil, wines, breakfast, mese and raki and many others.
So, a great book for cooks with international taste – or for those like me who don’t really cook, a good present idea. Most importantly, the proceeds from sales will go toards providing further education for children orphaned by recent earthquakes in Turkey.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Istanbul vapurlari (ferries)…
If you are from Istanbul or if you’ve ever been there, you know the beauty and the crucial role of the ferries in the city life. I mean the commuter ferries that cross the Bosphorus – that is from Asia to Europe, from Europe to Asia, from the main land to the Princes Islands, back and forth, back and forth for years and years. Ferries unite residents who define themselves as being “from the other side” much more than the two bridges that physically unite the city.
They don’t just carry people from one side to the other, they also have an altogether other world living on them. On the open decks you can feed the seagulls with simits (Turkish pretzels), drink ruby coloured Turkish tea in small glasses with narrow waist lines and read your paper fighting the wind which messes your hair but also clears the cobwebs away. On the closed decks you can buy tat that won’t last to the other continent from salesmen who entertain you better than last night’s comedy – or annoy you more than last night’s news….
Why am I writing all this? Because I’ve learnt (with some delay admittedly) that they are planning to replace the old fashioned ferries with ‘modern’ ones that are entirely closed, boring to be in and ugly to look at. There doesn’t seem to be an environmental or efficiency reason for the change (as was argued for replacing double-decker busses in London with new ones). It seems to be a change for change’s sake; for modernity; for conformity; for uniformity…Besides the new ones are much smaller (300 passengers) than older ones (1000-1500) – about 4 new trips for each 1 of old in an already congested waterway. If they change the ferries, they’ll regret it…the way they pulled the tram lines up in the 1960s-70s because buses were more modern only to build them again in the late 1980s. And who will pay? The residents of Istanbul of course – with loss of amenity and their taxes which will finance the new deal.
OK, I am also nostalgic…despite living in London for 15 years, the wallpaper on my mobile phone is still the silhouette of a ferry from Bostanci to the Islands in a pink January sunset. But to keep the old ferries running is not just a nostalgic wish of a ‘European Turk’ (as the likes of me are called these days) but very real wish of the locals too. So much so that they’ve started an online campaign: http://www.vapurumuvermiyorum.org/ I’ve signed it, try it for yourself…
The website is on the right – it’s in Turkish but you can at least see the pictures. And as for my Turkish friends – they can all read English.
Am off to Brussels tomorrow for a week or so – to fight the EU bureaucracy and for some mussels, fries and beer…
If you are from Istanbul or if you’ve ever been there, you know the beauty and the crucial role of the ferries in the city life. I mean the commuter ferries that cross the Bosphorus – that is from Asia to Europe, from Europe to Asia, from the main land to the Princes Islands, back and forth, back and forth for years and years. Ferries unite residents who define themselves as being “from the other side” much more than the two bridges that physically unite the city.
They don’t just carry people from one side to the other, they also have an altogether other world living on them. On the open decks you can feed the seagulls with simits (Turkish pretzels), drink ruby coloured Turkish tea in small glasses with narrow waist lines and read your paper fighting the wind which messes your hair but also clears the cobwebs away. On the closed decks you can buy tat that won’t last to the other continent from salesmen who entertain you better than last night’s comedy – or annoy you more than last night’s news….
Why am I writing all this? Because I’ve learnt (with some delay admittedly) that they are planning to replace the old fashioned ferries with ‘modern’ ones that are entirely closed, boring to be in and ugly to look at. There doesn’t seem to be an environmental or efficiency reason for the change (as was argued for replacing double-decker busses in London with new ones). It seems to be a change for change’s sake; for modernity; for conformity; for uniformity…Besides the new ones are much smaller (300 passengers) than older ones (1000-1500) – about 4 new trips for each 1 of old in an already congested waterway. If they change the ferries, they’ll regret it…the way they pulled the tram lines up in the 1960s-70s because buses were more modern only to build them again in the late 1980s. And who will pay? The residents of Istanbul of course – with loss of amenity and their taxes which will finance the new deal.
OK, I am also nostalgic…despite living in London for 15 years, the wallpaper on my mobile phone is still the silhouette of a ferry from Bostanci to the Islands in a pink January sunset. But to keep the old ferries running is not just a nostalgic wish of a ‘European Turk’ (as the likes of me are called these days) but very real wish of the locals too. So much so that they’ve started an online campaign: http://www.vapurumuvermiyorum.org/ I’ve signed it, try it for yourself…
The website is on the right – it’s in Turkish but you can at least see the pictures. And as for my Turkish friends – they can all read English.
Am off to Brussels tomorrow for a week or so – to fight the EU bureaucracy and for some mussels, fries and beer…
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Pushing 36 and still a romantic….
I’ve never denied being a romantic. I like to be given flowers. I cry at films. Other than a few bitter and hormone-deficient days when I feel like slapping them, I smile at young couples canoodling in public. And all the rest…I just hadn’t realised how much of a romantic I still am…I actually had tears in my eyes reading a book today.
The book? Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani (http://www.adrianatrigiani.com/). Not many sentences you want to read and re-read again because the way the words are put together has an unexpected and thrilling beauty. Things start rather slow and move on rather too quickly towards the end. And, to be honest, even though the book was recommended by a friend whose literary taste I respect, I wasn’t impressed with it at the beginning.
But there is a level of truthfulness that is hard to come by and that makes it more worthwhile a read than many books which have those sentences of rare beauty and plots of impeccable tightness. This book has warmth that makes the reader feel not alone in the world.
The heroine, Ave Maria, a 35 year old ‘spinster’, is more real than another single heroine, Bridget Jones (two recent references to this feeble excuse of a woman in this site – promise you won’t see many more!) . At the height of the ‘BJ’ hype, I remember thinking I didn’t know anyone that scatter brain. But I know many (including myself) at times ‘deceptively’ strong women like Ave Maria. Here is what I mean in the author’s own words:
“What has happened to me? I get so afraid now. I never used to. Why am I more vulnerable now than I was when I was alone, in charge of everything? I lived by myself in the middle of town, for God’s sake. I checked my own oil, lit my own furnace, caught mice. I had a routine: running a home, a business, the Rescue Squad, the Drama. I was never scared then. So much for strength in numbers, I think as I look at my husband, now that we are a family.”
(What she is afraid of is something bad happening to her husband, her happiness.)
I say ‘deceptively’ not because women can’t be strong but because sometimes we confuse being strong with being able to deal with everything on our own. Strength is not in being able to do everything single handed but being able to let go once in a while; to let one's self be vulnerable.
Well, I cried toward the end of the book – not only because Ave Maria realises the above definition of strength but because that means that she finally lets go and says ‘yes’ to the proposition of the man who loves her. Aaaaaahhhhhhh….
Actually I take back what I said about Adriana Trigiani. She does have a way with words…a very subtle way. By the time the quiet hero of the book makes his last declaration of love (which I would have loved to write here just to show its simple beauty had I wanted to spoil it for would-be readers) you will be there with them, with your heart in your mouth (is that the expression?).
And let’s face it, at this day and age, there are not many occasions that get your heart that far up!
I’ve never denied being a romantic. I like to be given flowers. I cry at films. Other than a few bitter and hormone-deficient days when I feel like slapping them, I smile at young couples canoodling in public. And all the rest…I just hadn’t realised how much of a romantic I still am…I actually had tears in my eyes reading a book today.
The book? Big Stone Gap by Adriana Trigiani (http://www.adrianatrigiani.com/). Not many sentences you want to read and re-read again because the way the words are put together has an unexpected and thrilling beauty. Things start rather slow and move on rather too quickly towards the end. And, to be honest, even though the book was recommended by a friend whose literary taste I respect, I wasn’t impressed with it at the beginning.
But there is a level of truthfulness that is hard to come by and that makes it more worthwhile a read than many books which have those sentences of rare beauty and plots of impeccable tightness. This book has warmth that makes the reader feel not alone in the world.
The heroine, Ave Maria, a 35 year old ‘spinster’, is more real than another single heroine, Bridget Jones (two recent references to this feeble excuse of a woman in this site – promise you won’t see many more!) . At the height of the ‘BJ’ hype, I remember thinking I didn’t know anyone that scatter brain. But I know many (including myself) at times ‘deceptively’ strong women like Ave Maria. Here is what I mean in the author’s own words:
“What has happened to me? I get so afraid now. I never used to. Why am I more vulnerable now than I was when I was alone, in charge of everything? I lived by myself in the middle of town, for God’s sake. I checked my own oil, lit my own furnace, caught mice. I had a routine: running a home, a business, the Rescue Squad, the Drama. I was never scared then. So much for strength in numbers, I think as I look at my husband, now that we are a family.”
(What she is afraid of is something bad happening to her husband, her happiness.)
I say ‘deceptively’ not because women can’t be strong but because sometimes we confuse being strong with being able to deal with everything on our own. Strength is not in being able to do everything single handed but being able to let go once in a while; to let one's self be vulnerable.
Well, I cried toward the end of the book – not only because Ave Maria realises the above definition of strength but because that means that she finally lets go and says ‘yes’ to the proposition of the man who loves her. Aaaaaahhhhhhh….
Actually I take back what I said about Adriana Trigiani. She does have a way with words…a very subtle way. By the time the quiet hero of the book makes his last declaration of love (which I would have loved to write here just to show its simple beauty had I wanted to spoil it for would-be readers) you will be there with them, with your heart in your mouth (is that the expression?).
And let’s face it, at this day and age, there are not many occasions that get your heart that far up!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
A very non-Bridget Jones morning (?)…
A recent “success” at acting like that Goddess of stupidity that is Bridget Jones, I woke up a couple days ago realising that I’ve had enough of all these little games. I stay in situations longer than I should…it’s my character, probably even my star sign. But once I have enough of something that’s it. And I’ve had enough of this stupidity and wanted to share it for the benefit of all those non-Bridget Jones girls out there who sometimes lose their ways …
I am slightly annoyed with him and with myself...why should I blame myself about what I may have said or done (or not)? Or rather why should I blame myself alone...who the f*** is he?! Not only: 'who does he think he is?!' but also 'who do I think he is?!'
Not asking whatever I expect him to ask / not calling / not returning emails, texts or whatever...my life is just too precious and too good for someone else of potentially no consequence whatsoever to inadvertently muddy. Or more importantly for the supposedly accurate perceptions of my over-active but wrongly channelled brain to knowingly do so!
And so on and so forth...
Replace I/he with any private name you wish, it comes to the same thing. This slightly (rather?) defensive stance made me rather happy....aunty says not to give up on people so quickly but at the same time not to get too involved too quickly or not to value them too much….the last one is where I fail but am determined to correct.
And so on and so forth...
I’ve read recently somewhere “the princes you kissed turned to frogs; the frogs you kissed remained frogs”
And so on and so forth…
A recent “success” at acting like that Goddess of stupidity that is Bridget Jones, I woke up a couple days ago realising that I’ve had enough of all these little games. I stay in situations longer than I should…it’s my character, probably even my star sign. But once I have enough of something that’s it. And I’ve had enough of this stupidity and wanted to share it for the benefit of all those non-Bridget Jones girls out there who sometimes lose their ways …
I am slightly annoyed with him and with myself...why should I blame myself about what I may have said or done (or not)? Or rather why should I blame myself alone...who the f*** is he?! Not only: 'who does he think he is?!' but also 'who do I think he is?!'
Not asking whatever I expect him to ask / not calling / not returning emails, texts or whatever...my life is just too precious and too good for someone else of potentially no consequence whatsoever to inadvertently muddy. Or more importantly for the supposedly accurate perceptions of my over-active but wrongly channelled brain to knowingly do so!
And so on and so forth...
Replace I/he with any private name you wish, it comes to the same thing. This slightly (rather?) defensive stance made me rather happy....aunty says not to give up on people so quickly but at the same time not to get too involved too quickly or not to value them too much….the last one is where I fail but am determined to correct.
And so on and so forth...
I’ve read recently somewhere “the princes you kissed turned to frogs; the frogs you kissed remained frogs”
And so on and so forth…
The promised account of the Morocco trip…finally!
All immigrants have one conflict in common: where to go on holiday. Do you go home and quench your longing for your home country, family and friends? Or do you explore this vast world as much as your time and budget allow? A solution to this eternal conflict is to meet your family members in a third country.....and Morocco may just be the ideal destination for Turks.
Why? It’s almost half way between Turkey and the UK, almost always sunny, does not impose visa to Turkish citizens and it’s cheap (£1 = about 15 dirhems). I spent the last week of March in Morocco with my aunt so can vouch for it.
I met her in Casablanca. She came on a package tour from Istanbul and I joined the same tour from London. I normally prefer the freedom of independent travel. But this time a package holiday was the best option for two reasons. First, the fact that all logistics were taken care of meant that I could spend more quality time with my aunt. Second, the presence of other Turks on the tour lessened my longing for the mother country – at least a little (more on that later…).
Morocco is a kingdom. Majority of the 29 million population is Muslim and consists of Arabs, Berbers and mix of the two. Very beautiful people I tell you. It’s almost as large as Turkey but because about half the country is desert, most live in the northern half. The French which ruled here between 1912 and 1956 left behind large avenues and beautiful, tall (though now mostly run down) apartment blocks.
Our tour was called ‘Royal Cities’ and covered Rabat, Meknes, Fes and Marrakech. The tour started in Casablanca because of its transport connections as the biggest city. It has all those beautiful French apartments but little of the romance the film of the same name created on screen…it turns out the film was made in Hollywood anyway!
Rabat Medina (the old town - Medina means town in Arabic) is beautiful but the rest you can skip. Meknes – you can totally skip…Moulla Idris is a small town between Rabat and Fes – interesting in that it’s not a beautiful town to be in but a great one to look at, the way it’s positioned on a couple of hills cradled by two larger ones. The nearby Roman town is also worth a visit. Fes and Marrakech, on the other hand, are unmissable.
The old town of Fes is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Some of the streets are so narrow that two people can’t walk past. Not only the architecture but almost even the life style of the city seems to have been preserved since 9th – 12th century when it was founded…that is except for the multiple TV antennas that don every roof.
The oldest and largest square of Marrakech, Cemaa el Fna, is another World Heritage Site. The square, which was once where public executions took place, is today full of life. During the day, it’s full of dried fruit and nut and orange juice sellers, and Moroccans of all sorts running after their errands. At night, it is a festival of Moroccan cuisine, fortune tellers, sooth sayers, alchemists, snake charmers, musicians, dancers and many other treasures.
The liveliest parts of any old city during the day are the souks. It’s impossible not to get lost in them. Colours, smells and noises emanating from the shops are simply thrilling. “To look is free – no need to buy” they say but once you are so much as hesitate for a second in front a shop, it’s near impossible to leave without bargaining and then, of course, buying something….usually very good value but possibly for something that you don’t really need.
The similarities between Morocco and Turkey don’t end with souks and bargaining. There are also men’s cafes almost on every corner: the difference is that theirs are less depressing. Women are also dressed rather conservatively (with or without head scarves) even if it’s hard to see what Moroccans (men or women) wear since they mostly wear a jellaba over everything that covers them from head-to-toe and depending on the material keeps them cool in summer and warm in winter.
Mind you, my fellow tour goers from Turkey changed my understanding of how ‘conservative’ Turkish women can be. They were two couples (brothers and their wives). All four were hajjis and women covered their heads – even though due to her colour coordinated outfits, at least one of them looked more feminine than my aunt and I who were just slopping it! The other woman wasn’t as happy with having to cover her head I think…. She would sneak around and have a cigarette every now and then (her husband knew but not the older brother-in-law who clearly was the Alpha male of the family). She also had a great sense of humour. One morning when asked how we spent the night, my aunt said the people in the neighbouring room in the hotel woke us up by having showers at 3 in the morning. Her response was “perhaps they were living their fantasies” (fantezi yapiyorlardir)…the fact that they may have been living their fantasies would have never occurred to me - less so to suggest it to strangers in a package tour….and I call myself liberal!
If you don’t want to go on a package holiday of royal cities and shop till you drop, Morocco also offers Berber villages, wild Rif and Atlas mountains, lakes, beaches, desert, and plains covered in wild flowers. In our tour, we covered over 1000km (feeling guilty about the CO2 emissions). The scenery during the whole trip was made up of thousands of wild flowers of all colours imaginable…the best cure after the grey winter of the UK.
A holiday that’s close by, sunny, green (at the right time of the year), historical, cheap and requires no visa…. A holiday that’s a welcome alternative to making endless visits to friends and family during which the same new stories are told and the same old stories are rehashed….what are you waiting for?!
All immigrants have one conflict in common: where to go on holiday. Do you go home and quench your longing for your home country, family and friends? Or do you explore this vast world as much as your time and budget allow? A solution to this eternal conflict is to meet your family members in a third country.....and Morocco may just be the ideal destination for Turks.
Why? It’s almost half way between Turkey and the UK, almost always sunny, does not impose visa to Turkish citizens and it’s cheap (£1 = about 15 dirhems). I spent the last week of March in Morocco with my aunt so can vouch for it.
I met her in Casablanca. She came on a package tour from Istanbul and I joined the same tour from London. I normally prefer the freedom of independent travel. But this time a package holiday was the best option for two reasons. First, the fact that all logistics were taken care of meant that I could spend more quality time with my aunt. Second, the presence of other Turks on the tour lessened my longing for the mother country – at least a little (more on that later…).
Morocco is a kingdom. Majority of the 29 million population is Muslim and consists of Arabs, Berbers and mix of the two. Very beautiful people I tell you. It’s almost as large as Turkey but because about half the country is desert, most live in the northern half. The French which ruled here between 1912 and 1956 left behind large avenues and beautiful, tall (though now mostly run down) apartment blocks.
Our tour was called ‘Royal Cities’ and covered Rabat, Meknes, Fes and Marrakech. The tour started in Casablanca because of its transport connections as the biggest city. It has all those beautiful French apartments but little of the romance the film of the same name created on screen…it turns out the film was made in Hollywood anyway!
Rabat Medina (the old town - Medina means town in Arabic) is beautiful but the rest you can skip. Meknes – you can totally skip…Moulla Idris is a small town between Rabat and Fes – interesting in that it’s not a beautiful town to be in but a great one to look at, the way it’s positioned on a couple of hills cradled by two larger ones. The nearby Roman town is also worth a visit. Fes and Marrakech, on the other hand, are unmissable.
The old town of Fes is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Some of the streets are so narrow that two people can’t walk past. Not only the architecture but almost even the life style of the city seems to have been preserved since 9th – 12th century when it was founded…that is except for the multiple TV antennas that don every roof.
The oldest and largest square of Marrakech, Cemaa el Fna, is another World Heritage Site. The square, which was once where public executions took place, is today full of life. During the day, it’s full of dried fruit and nut and orange juice sellers, and Moroccans of all sorts running after their errands. At night, it is a festival of Moroccan cuisine, fortune tellers, sooth sayers, alchemists, snake charmers, musicians, dancers and many other treasures.
The liveliest parts of any old city during the day are the souks. It’s impossible not to get lost in them. Colours, smells and noises emanating from the shops are simply thrilling. “To look is free – no need to buy” they say but once you are so much as hesitate for a second in front a shop, it’s near impossible to leave without bargaining and then, of course, buying something….usually very good value but possibly for something that you don’t really need.
The similarities between Morocco and Turkey don’t end with souks and bargaining. There are also men’s cafes almost on every corner: the difference is that theirs are less depressing. Women are also dressed rather conservatively (with or without head scarves) even if it’s hard to see what Moroccans (men or women) wear since they mostly wear a jellaba over everything that covers them from head-to-toe and depending on the material keeps them cool in summer and warm in winter.
Mind you, my fellow tour goers from Turkey changed my understanding of how ‘conservative’ Turkish women can be. They were two couples (brothers and their wives). All four were hajjis and women covered their heads – even though due to her colour coordinated outfits, at least one of them looked more feminine than my aunt and I who were just slopping it! The other woman wasn’t as happy with having to cover her head I think…. She would sneak around and have a cigarette every now and then (her husband knew but not the older brother-in-law who clearly was the Alpha male of the family). She also had a great sense of humour. One morning when asked how we spent the night, my aunt said the people in the neighbouring room in the hotel woke us up by having showers at 3 in the morning. Her response was “perhaps they were living their fantasies” (fantezi yapiyorlardir)…the fact that they may have been living their fantasies would have never occurred to me - less so to suggest it to strangers in a package tour….and I call myself liberal!
If you don’t want to go on a package holiday of royal cities and shop till you drop, Morocco also offers Berber villages, wild Rif and Atlas mountains, lakes, beaches, desert, and plains covered in wild flowers. In our tour, we covered over 1000km (feeling guilty about the CO2 emissions). The scenery during the whole trip was made up of thousands of wild flowers of all colours imaginable…the best cure after the grey winter of the UK.
A holiday that’s close by, sunny, green (at the right time of the year), historical, cheap and requires no visa…. A holiday that’s a welcome alternative to making endless visits to friends and family during which the same new stories are told and the same old stories are rehashed….what are you waiting for?!
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Hey, I've just remembered today is Children's Day in Turkey...I still remember one such day when I was about 7 or 8 dressed in a white princess dress and joining the parade...it used to always rain on the 23rd of April, so it's not surprising it's rained today, too...Never mind. Happy children's day for the child in all of us :)
I think I am a placebo…
It’s been a, in all meanings of the word, cloudy day in London town. I really wanted to be in a big cinema, dark and warm, watching a light big screen movie, with popcorn and coca cola in hand. So, instead of walking around the Victoria Park and feeling depressed and afterwards doing some work and feeling even more depressed, I walked down the canal to the cinema in Canary Wharf.
American Dreamz was the only non-horror movie that started around the time I arrived at the cinema. I have to admit to being pleasantly surprised. It has a good script – even though it doesn’t say anything new, it says it well. It could in fact be blamed for trying to target too many things. Its characters are too obvious…but then again the obvious is usually funnier than the ‘clever’.
Perhaps the most obvious character is President Stanton who is so clearly Dubya that it hurts to watch Dennis Quaid at times…he is simply too good. The title of this blog is in fact one of his lines. When Mrs President tells him that the happy pills are placebo, he comes to the realisation that he is a placebo for a president… Such life changing realisations can only happen in films! Or are we all placebos of ourselves..ha ha ha
Finally, Hugh Grant is excellent in this film; I’d hazard, even better than in Four Weddings and A Funeral. He does the nasty, sarcastic but deep down sorry character much better than sweet and the sleazy look of his eyes is better than the puppy dog one.
I wouldn’t recommend this film for a Friday date but it’s excellent for a cloudy Sunday afternoon…and let’s face it, despite almost the end of April, we are set for more cloudy Sundays.
It’s been a, in all meanings of the word, cloudy day in London town. I really wanted to be in a big cinema, dark and warm, watching a light big screen movie, with popcorn and coca cola in hand. So, instead of walking around the Victoria Park and feeling depressed and afterwards doing some work and feeling even more depressed, I walked down the canal to the cinema in Canary Wharf.
American Dreamz was the only non-horror movie that started around the time I arrived at the cinema. I have to admit to being pleasantly surprised. It has a good script – even though it doesn’t say anything new, it says it well. It could in fact be blamed for trying to target too many things. Its characters are too obvious…but then again the obvious is usually funnier than the ‘clever’.
Perhaps the most obvious character is President Stanton who is so clearly Dubya that it hurts to watch Dennis Quaid at times…he is simply too good. The title of this blog is in fact one of his lines. When Mrs President tells him that the happy pills are placebo, he comes to the realisation that he is a placebo for a president… Such life changing realisations can only happen in films! Or are we all placebos of ourselves..ha ha ha
Finally, Hugh Grant is excellent in this film; I’d hazard, even better than in Four Weddings and A Funeral. He does the nasty, sarcastic but deep down sorry character much better than sweet and the sleazy look of his eyes is better than the puppy dog one.
I wouldn’t recommend this film for a Friday date but it’s excellent for a cloudy Sunday afternoon…and let’s face it, despite almost the end of April, we are set for more cloudy Sundays.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Oh, so many things happen….so little time to write them…
It’s been almost a month since my last entry. I can’t believe it’s been that long and….apologies to my readers who are very small in numbers but very big in support.
Trip to Morocco which was responsible for one of these four weeks was great. I’ll write about it separately (and long) in the next few days. In the meantime, here is Easter and the Babazula concert I promised to write about.
Easter – what do eggs have to do with rabbits?
It’s Easter Bank Holiday Monday, I still have the heating on…. I am pleasantly and healthily tired having spent the three of last four days walking. We hiked along part of the South Down Way.
On the first day we must have underestimated the length of the route and overestimated our fitness as after walking for about nine miles we were still just about half-way to our destination…practical people that we are, we took a taxi to Lewes! I don’t know if any of you knows but Lewes has the most fairy-tale like castle I’ve ever seen…the towers on the top are soft wave shapes instead of being angular as they normally area.
The second day, there was another taxi, this time in the morning to cut a couple of miles off at the beginning. So 6.5 miles and some rain saw us arrive at Alfriston about 2pm. I spent the afternoon reading, watching the rain and sleeping. I wont’ bore you with hotels but Dean’s Place (Best Western) in Alfriston was wonderful (http://www.alfriston-village.co.uk) – especially the single room facing the front garden I stayed in. The hotel as with the most of the rest of the village is from 15th century. Apparently the hotel is known to have a friendly ghost ‘a woman in a blue dress’….If I tell you I am reading a detective story called Devil in a Blue Dress at the moment…you can imagine how many times I woke up through the night…luckily, no lady in blue dress showed herself to me.
The third day was the hardest hike: 13 miles the last 10 of which was the Seven Sisters…Seven main and some smaller cliffs on the way to Eastborne…and at least 1.5 miles on the clean but depressing promenade of Eastborne. The day ended in Brigthon – a train ride away – and despite my previous fond memories of it, a hen / stag night nightmare of a town…or am I getting older?!
Older I surely am getting, but also fitter. The hardest hike on the third day felt much easier than the first day. I am very happy about that – despite a body aching all over. We are planning another hike for the first May Bank Holiday.
Babazula is the Daddy
The Saturday before last I was at the Babazula concert at the Carling Islington Academy. It was kind of weird…good weird – accompanied with a mad looking belly dancer who came on every now and then and a fantastic VJ who, non-stop, drew abstract figures that matched the music and lyrics on a pad that showed up on a huge screen behind the band.
The concert started with Mad Professor (professor of dub). After 2-3 songs by him, his DJ team and his West African (or so I think) dancers, members of Babazula came on stage and they all started playing together – first the percussionist (darbuka only), then the keyboards and finally Murat on saz and vocals. They were not introduced – not even lights came up as they came on stage. I really liked that “fusion”. It was meaningful about the possibilities of cooperation between seemingly very different people and purposes and it made bloody good music too.
Once all three members were on stage, they were joined by the VJ who was so impressive that friends and I just stood there listening to the music and being mesmerised by her drawings, incapable of dancing which, without the VJ, we were more likely to do.
I’d love to write more about the experience…another thoughtful choice and good organisation by Kazum (www.kazum.co.uk) but I am very tired…so I’ll finish with a sentimental note…one of their songs is ‘Babasiz Kizlar Balosu’ – ‘The Ball for Girls without Fathers’ - after which I called my Dad whose birthday it was that day. I was going to call him after the concert anyway but that very moment felt more appropriate. Music is a great thing and capable of saying things words alone fail to.
Note: ‘Baba’ in Turkish means ‘Daddy’ though am not sure what ‘Babazula’ means…
It’s been almost a month since my last entry. I can’t believe it’s been that long and….apologies to my readers who are very small in numbers but very big in support.
Trip to Morocco which was responsible for one of these four weeks was great. I’ll write about it separately (and long) in the next few days. In the meantime, here is Easter and the Babazula concert I promised to write about.
Easter – what do eggs have to do with rabbits?
It’s Easter Bank Holiday Monday, I still have the heating on…. I am pleasantly and healthily tired having spent the three of last four days walking. We hiked along part of the South Down Way.
On the first day we must have underestimated the length of the route and overestimated our fitness as after walking for about nine miles we were still just about half-way to our destination…practical people that we are, we took a taxi to Lewes! I don’t know if any of you knows but Lewes has the most fairy-tale like castle I’ve ever seen…the towers on the top are soft wave shapes instead of being angular as they normally area.
The second day, there was another taxi, this time in the morning to cut a couple of miles off at the beginning. So 6.5 miles and some rain saw us arrive at Alfriston about 2pm. I spent the afternoon reading, watching the rain and sleeping. I wont’ bore you with hotels but Dean’s Place (Best Western) in Alfriston was wonderful (http://www.alfriston-village.co.uk) – especially the single room facing the front garden I stayed in. The hotel as with the most of the rest of the village is from 15th century. Apparently the hotel is known to have a friendly ghost ‘a woman in a blue dress’….If I tell you I am reading a detective story called Devil in a Blue Dress at the moment…you can imagine how many times I woke up through the night…luckily, no lady in blue dress showed herself to me.
The third day was the hardest hike: 13 miles the last 10 of which was the Seven Sisters…Seven main and some smaller cliffs on the way to Eastborne…and at least 1.5 miles on the clean but depressing promenade of Eastborne. The day ended in Brigthon – a train ride away – and despite my previous fond memories of it, a hen / stag night nightmare of a town…or am I getting older?!
Older I surely am getting, but also fitter. The hardest hike on the third day felt much easier than the first day. I am very happy about that – despite a body aching all over. We are planning another hike for the first May Bank Holiday.
Babazula is the Daddy
The Saturday before last I was at the Babazula concert at the Carling Islington Academy. It was kind of weird…good weird – accompanied with a mad looking belly dancer who came on every now and then and a fantastic VJ who, non-stop, drew abstract figures that matched the music and lyrics on a pad that showed up on a huge screen behind the band.
The concert started with Mad Professor (professor of dub). After 2-3 songs by him, his DJ team and his West African (or so I think) dancers, members of Babazula came on stage and they all started playing together – first the percussionist (darbuka only), then the keyboards and finally Murat on saz and vocals. They were not introduced – not even lights came up as they came on stage. I really liked that “fusion”. It was meaningful about the possibilities of cooperation between seemingly very different people and purposes and it made bloody good music too.
Once all three members were on stage, they were joined by the VJ who was so impressive that friends and I just stood there listening to the music and being mesmerised by her drawings, incapable of dancing which, without the VJ, we were more likely to do.
I’d love to write more about the experience…another thoughtful choice and good organisation by Kazum (www.kazum.co.uk) but I am very tired…so I’ll finish with a sentimental note…one of their songs is ‘Babasiz Kizlar Balosu’ – ‘The Ball for Girls without Fathers’ - after which I called my Dad whose birthday it was that day. I was going to call him after the concert anyway but that very moment felt more appropriate. Music is a great thing and capable of saying things words alone fail to.
Note: ‘Baba’ in Turkish means ‘Daddy’ though am not sure what ‘Babazula’ means…
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Under the (cloudy) Anatolian Skies
Erkan Ogur (http://www.erkanogur.net/) a Turkish musician who is one of the best names of ‘Anatolian jazz’ was in concert (‘under the Anatolian skies’) at the Royal Festival Hall on Wednesday, 15th March.
Except for some of his film music I didn’t know his work but it’s a duty to turn up at concerts of Turkish musicians in London! In the event, it was worth going to on its own right. ‘Anatolian jazz’ that was played on the night can in fact hardly be called ‘Anatolian’ since, while some of the tunes were inspired by Turkish folk music, it’s basically jazz…with lots of jamming...as it should be - universal and a little mad.
I liked it except for one thing, which is not a dislike as such but an observation: all the songs were intense…intensely searching, intensely yearning, intensely sad, intesenly rebellious…On the positive side, this intensity was an antidote to repetitive shallow rythms intended more for hips than senses (shikidam shikidam). On the other hand, one happy tune, one single happy tune, a glimpse of sunshine through the clouds would have been much appreciated.
Another Turkish concert is coming up in London. This time by a young group, Babazula (http://www.babazula.com/) , with at least some happy songs. The featured in the recent documentary of music in Istanbul (Crossing the Bridge). Check out the concert details at http://www.kazum.co.uk/
This is it for a couple of weeks. Busy week coming up and then on Saturday I am off for a short holiday to Morocco. Hopefully there will be many stories from there.
Erkan Ogur (http://www.erkanogur.net/) a Turkish musician who is one of the best names of ‘Anatolian jazz’ was in concert (‘under the Anatolian skies’) at the Royal Festival Hall on Wednesday, 15th March.
Except for some of his film music I didn’t know his work but it’s a duty to turn up at concerts of Turkish musicians in London! In the event, it was worth going to on its own right. ‘Anatolian jazz’ that was played on the night can in fact hardly be called ‘Anatolian’ since, while some of the tunes were inspired by Turkish folk music, it’s basically jazz…with lots of jamming...as it should be - universal and a little mad.
I liked it except for one thing, which is not a dislike as such but an observation: all the songs were intense…intensely searching, intensely yearning, intensely sad, intesenly rebellious…On the positive side, this intensity was an antidote to repetitive shallow rythms intended more for hips than senses (shikidam shikidam). On the other hand, one happy tune, one single happy tune, a glimpse of sunshine through the clouds would have been much appreciated.
Another Turkish concert is coming up in London. This time by a young group, Babazula (http://www.babazula.com/) , with at least some happy songs. The featured in the recent documentary of music in Istanbul (Crossing the Bridge). Check out the concert details at http://www.kazum.co.uk/
This is it for a couple of weeks. Busy week coming up and then on Saturday I am off for a short holiday to Morocco. Hopefully there will be many stories from there.
Monday, March 13, 2006
A new agony uncle: “Brother Trust”
There is a new Turkish language monthly women’s magazine in London: the first of its kind in fact. It’s only four months old. I got in touch with the Editor through a friend and it looks like I may be writing for them every now and then.
To start with, they asked me to write about their agony uncle. This agony uncle lives in Turkey and is called ‘Brother Trust’ (or Guven Abi in Turkish). Given that the main preoccupation of women is men (just as the main preoccupation of men is women), it’s much more logical for a women’s magazine to have an agony uncle than an agony aunt!
In his first article, he recounts his conversation with the Editor and how she persuaded him to take up the position. In his hesitation, he asks her ‘I don’t know anything about the concerns of Turkish speaking women over there…what am I supposed to write?’ That got me thinking.
I guess, in general, every woman has similar concerns (like every man does). But there are perhaps two main differences for a Turkish speaking woman (or man) in the UK (for that matter any immigrant in any country).
The first one is about format: having to write Turkish using an English keyboard. Well, OK, this one is only valid for speakers of languages that use hybrid alphabets. Those who are not as lazy as I am download Turkish software or buy Turkish keyboards. But I am lazy. So sometimes, letters i, o, u, g, s, c, appear in the most inconvenient places (that is, instead of ı, ö, ü, ğ, ş, ç). This leads to a particularly funny mistake every now and then when i gets mistaken for ı which turns the Turkish word ‘bored’ to ‘f****d’….it’s not impossible to be both at the same time but that usually is not what the writer wishes to convey….apologies for lowering the tone.
The second is about content. It’s the very fact of living abroad. To borrow the phrase I used in a recent post: that is the problem of being ‘twice a stranger’. I’ve adapted well to British society (or shall I say London?) but even so there is always something missing. Although I’ve been only very rarely made to feel a stranger, there is something missing. But we are strangers to Turkey, too. On holiday in southern Turkey a few years ago, someone asked me: ‘you speak very good Turkish, where did you learn?’ I laughed at it at the time but can you imagine how (unintentionally) hurtful a question this could be? Never mind.
I guess other than these two, the concerns and problems are the same. There are Turkish speaking women here who, despite living half an hour’s bus ride away, have never been to central London; just as there are women in Istanbul who have never seen the sea. Then, there are those like me who live more closely with the rest of the British society, and, whose foreignness and gender have not been obstacles for them, but nevertheless long to hear a dear one say ‘canim, bir tanem, hayatim’ (my soul, my one and only, my life…wonderful terms of endearment). I am not saying these words come easily to Turkish speaking men or when said are actually meant whatever the language.
What’s clear is that Turkey we miss and Turkey we’ve missed out on are two different but equally worthy places to long for. But perhaps having such longings is what makes one more appreciative of what’s there as well as what’s missing.
There is a new Turkish language monthly women’s magazine in London: the first of its kind in fact. It’s only four months old. I got in touch with the Editor through a friend and it looks like I may be writing for them every now and then.
To start with, they asked me to write about their agony uncle. This agony uncle lives in Turkey and is called ‘Brother Trust’ (or Guven Abi in Turkish). Given that the main preoccupation of women is men (just as the main preoccupation of men is women), it’s much more logical for a women’s magazine to have an agony uncle than an agony aunt!
In his first article, he recounts his conversation with the Editor and how she persuaded him to take up the position. In his hesitation, he asks her ‘I don’t know anything about the concerns of Turkish speaking women over there…what am I supposed to write?’ That got me thinking.
I guess, in general, every woman has similar concerns (like every man does). But there are perhaps two main differences for a Turkish speaking woman (or man) in the UK (for that matter any immigrant in any country).
The first one is about format: having to write Turkish using an English keyboard. Well, OK, this one is only valid for speakers of languages that use hybrid alphabets. Those who are not as lazy as I am download Turkish software or buy Turkish keyboards. But I am lazy. So sometimes, letters i, o, u, g, s, c, appear in the most inconvenient places (that is, instead of ı, ö, ü, ğ, ş, ç). This leads to a particularly funny mistake every now and then when i gets mistaken for ı which turns the Turkish word ‘bored’ to ‘f****d’….it’s not impossible to be both at the same time but that usually is not what the writer wishes to convey….apologies for lowering the tone.
The second is about content. It’s the very fact of living abroad. To borrow the phrase I used in a recent post: that is the problem of being ‘twice a stranger’. I’ve adapted well to British society (or shall I say London?) but even so there is always something missing. Although I’ve been only very rarely made to feel a stranger, there is something missing. But we are strangers to Turkey, too. On holiday in southern Turkey a few years ago, someone asked me: ‘you speak very good Turkish, where did you learn?’ I laughed at it at the time but can you imagine how (unintentionally) hurtful a question this could be? Never mind.
I guess other than these two, the concerns and problems are the same. There are Turkish speaking women here who, despite living half an hour’s bus ride away, have never been to central London; just as there are women in Istanbul who have never seen the sea. Then, there are those like me who live more closely with the rest of the British society, and, whose foreignness and gender have not been obstacles for them, but nevertheless long to hear a dear one say ‘canim, bir tanem, hayatim’ (my soul, my one and only, my life…wonderful terms of endearment). I am not saying these words come easily to Turkish speaking men or when said are actually meant whatever the language.
What’s clear is that Turkey we miss and Turkey we’ve missed out on are two different but equally worthy places to long for. But perhaps having such longings is what makes one more appreciative of what’s there as well as what’s missing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
