The myth of proof and counterparts : Syndrome of Narrative 2

•January 13, 2012 • Leave a Comment

The gallops of a hardening time of doing and daring amateur science gush forth and forward, yet, i have hardly known it. Scientist creeps through the grounds sickly. In no return of fate is a tact so wrongful in dismissal, so abrupt in the making. Four year into, formalized it, 4 years, practice. The works stay the same, boundaries callous and she is a shepherd and I don’t have any idea. A barista, say, is preparing a cappuccino; a commander-in-chief is missing a point and a woman is in a dearly protest. Each of these people operate under radiating ideologies, as variably pressing as they might be.  The Protest means you are the idea, anthropomorphized. The President is a ghost of  policy/practice and idea in the mutual making, never meant for the societal human so he continuously disregards. The Coffeemaker is craft with less than zero indoctrination. Well then, what is it that i am doing? What in the world of these people where the daily activity is cathartic to the essence of the discourse, where you lie to people to tell the truth to lie to the senate, and where the camera watching over the coffee beans and plastic lids will be the most you Foucault, delete that, where the pure practice is default, how in the world of these people does one without myth, one without reckless joy  make it?

Snow, A Eulogy

•February 23, 2011 • 1 Comment

In the momentary lapse of everything of temper,

It was 3am

Of the poems and of a drugged phantom of stammering centuries

It was late

With the words of meaning and the words of service,

With the words of meaning and the words of service,

With the words of meaning and the words of service,  on a horse-back intelligentsia, with the rhetoric of a-dying,

with the words that make and the words that take,

It was snowing.

Stanza Hurts (Jasmine in Agusut)

•February 19, 2011 • Leave a Comment

A light, slightest demand.

A love will howl.

A tucked up sleep, of her majesty the kind.

A Righteous Will will count.

If you’ll, i’ll.

A torque of machines of her loving grace

This Stanza Hurts

This plane wreck, i’ll stand.

The hell is others, a french template

I’ll assist this hymn in a light, slightest a return.

den väna solen

•February 8, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Crackles in a step-mothertounge,

Sulfur riots.

A hall therein.

Nobody says no like you do.

Brísingamen shatters, the rye aches.

that is a dial of first permission,

everlasting trials of what is.

Come sign a sister, An Aphrodite of Paphos

Nobody parts like you do.

Fifty million years, fair sun,

we still thirst the waters we dread.

Fifity million years, namesake,

i still write with a smirk.

F.

This post is false.

•February 8, 2011 • Leave a Comment

What was so disturbing for Europe and maybe ridiculous at a distance for the States  in the 2011 Arab Upheavals was the knee-jerk reflex of solidarity, almost at play in Newtonian fashion, amassing million+ fists swung at  rifles shot . Bouazizi’s self-immolation showed of a symbol reenacted at a breathless distance from counterparts of romantic acts of individual relevance. It was the time, it was the place, it was everybody’s flesh the Tunisian Police HQ watched crackle. Egypt was a spectacle for a France of Bastille or for a Russia of Bolsheviks. For two weeks, no rest, a city came to a willful halt, first shouted, then fought its ground. This is what we saw on TV and that is what we cheered for as they held ground in Tahrir and lamented for as they charged towards a pro-Mubarek car speeding through them like it’s the harvest season. However, again, romanticizing is forgetting. Given the massive dimensions of pure human elements in the event, no ideology, no political tarnishing, It’s dangerously close to a misguided empathy. Which is all and well at a distance, but you are entitled to remember this: This almost Hollywood alienation of isolated sympathy is bottled up somewhere else as fictitious. The  unrelenting, unforgiving, bleeds-when-shot reality  is 1 MILLION out of 80 MILLION people of a 1 MILLION kmsq land have set a momentum in 48 hours and have blown out to a single voice in a week. The story is and is not about the million; In the crux of the solidarity is not the number, but that guy who microrevolts, deaf and blind to what goes on outside. Solidarity is a timepoint when vectors of more than one parallel. Revolution is when he opens his eyes up from the cry within and he had already stormed  the Bastille. Revolution then becomes tidal. Not a million as one external self, but a natural upbringing of parts into breaking. The affairs of  a revolutionary is not dependent of the revolution. Nor the revolution is dependent of the the affairs of a bunch of them. It’s surreal to imagine an inertia, in falling societies from DeGaulles into self-immolation. The gap to fill is the mystical one i left:  Then who talks to whom? Who ties the internal cosmos of one to a final catharsis of a million?

?

One night.

•February 5, 2011 • 2 Comments

“Funny how falling feels like flying for a little while”

When one night weighs in, all days collapse, on foot along a flightless highway. She told you to live it, the cries rang. Go forward. Here eyes the eerie calm, watch it vanish left and right

right and wrong.

Overcome, she’ll teach you, you’ll push the air out of your lungs, out in a room. She’ll put it back in. Come around an accident, a temperament, a glitch, a silhouette off a blink, a dark joke. A stage fright.

She’ll bear an end. Her smell on your neck lies stolen.

Lies departed, no place for the weary kind.

2.4.11 bound  2.3.11


Pied-noir: Meursault in Lefkosa.

•November 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I am not a settler of my home for about 6 years. Various excerpts of my foundation are a part of the land, so the departure and the departed were of familiar kinds; In the new grounds, there has been extensive introspection, falling dominos, rejection, widowed conceptions, and surely enough, a half-assed acceptance and a kamikaze tolerance at the end. Some were events of blood and flesh so it was murder in essence. I remember some instances like i remember things when i directly look at those things. They are cultural on paper but that is like saying somebody is crazy; shifting the responsible subject of action from explanation to description, mentally wayward is rarely an outlier in of itself, it is not enough.  Social nets and sinister webs bind us in eras; Beneath all, from the island that i am, it seemed that there was a zen of it all, a karma of sense.  So it was cultural, but we are not merely machines that spew out culture and entirely learned locality. Culture can also be rationalized and compromised not on the basis of the herd, not on the basis of who owns the land and who put the flag highest up, not on the basis of bastard extremities of provincial public, but on free and rather indifferent double headed-observation and  participation as a mere recognition and balance over the zeal of emotional stretches or so i thought. I was wrong.

The ‘otherness’ struck.  This is a cast-away experience of no escapade, it’s the mere definition of many things. All terms assumed  on dangerous faults, i dare say it’s identity; a ghetto of reeking self-pathology, self-emancipation and self-overhearing. It’s a linguistic frustration in a retroactive realm, where the words catastrophize a bastard cunning that of a man made. It’s an attempt, cracking into beats of craft and memory. It’s an unbalanced territory of a bunch, in which nothing  but the space is occupied.  Being a self-differentiating axiom is seldom enough, it’s a stance. It’s a class.

When troubled, I’ve always come back to a sitcom realization: The otherness among the others is malicious in self-referencing, but not so in a taught range. There are playful dynamics, all about blending in. Observe long enough and there is nothing that cannot be faked. Never authenticate, side, be opinionated but don’t give a shit. Do not pursue teleology, converse on a momentous topology. But it’s never along a comforting artifact to relent; No matter how much of a stranger it’s in you, there will be a time, numerous times, where a heartbeat will resemble a quick loss, a tick of black and white and you’ll be home again, no volume will utter no lie,  never again romanticizing a return.

Outsourced, it’s easy to cultivate a terminal amnesia of status, never quite sure of what to make of the unspoken. This is free of time or times seen or heard, insomnia of a somewhat deliberate call to rewake a lament of emanating sense . Student, lawyer, rich, black pants, long hair, hippie, driver, coffee, all is recalled upon a dread to dream of a sensitivity familiar. I will suggest everything about a similar consciousness is tamed with an urgency that takes back and redelivers, stronger with unnatural ambition, a nurtured struggle. Out comes a theory, a cannibal assumption of how it all worked out. And yet, it won’t. But it won’t matter because there will, always be home. Well, i was wrong again.

Nuances will favor significance at home, where i dominate by hefty miles. First, i swear better in Turkish. Second, i am of the land: This is the small window of incidence where one realizes that the physicality of what’s underneath is more than a metaphor, but a literal hyphen. Definite as it is, it’s barren. Some things are only silenced on your barren soil. The land is not the nation, is not the home,  is not the city, not the village. The land is the momentum challenged by a unmovable, timeless phantasmagoria of genesis. Put your hand through, as if you touch. Step on it as if you walk. You are of it. The land is the subtlest of nuances but the most binding.

My ever lengthening return is now awaited by a nostalgia i am sure nascent among its peers: The land and the swearing won’t be there to save a return to sacred grounds of belonging because the otherness will carry on. It won’t be alarming or tiring. It will be ever the same. It will be the faces, the roads, the familiar expressions, welcoming indifferences, practical numerations. However the same, a tragic existence will dawn unprecedented; I won’t be budged out of my politics, socialites, cypriots will dampen and rise, cry and heave the patrons of history, and will return home, to a land noir. A part of me will blend in, a part of me will fight into relevance and a new part of me will exhume a dead lord; We will be the other ones, the language won’t bind neither the condition. It won’t be sad or jolly. It will be tragic in its negation of all the absorbed sores. It won’t be a rebellion. It will be urgent in arrival.

It will be a short passage, where i won’t be writing cypriot, still a cypriot, won’t be home. Finally lost and gone, i will return. There will come out a theory, a rival assumption of how it all ended. And yet it won’t. And it won’t matter because there will, always be another home. And as always, I’ll be wrong.

F.