Pied-noir: Meursault in Lefkosa.
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.
Mutatio 