bare november days

how did it happen? why did i let the month of november just pass me by? getting a little rusty, i suppose.

this is exactly what happens when you get lost in the daily obligations of midterms and papers. the bare november days pass you by. so here i am, first apologizing, then making amends, and celebrating the beautiful, noble, graceful month of november. the month that feels like it jumped out of an 18th century Russian poem. (not to mention that the October Revolution was also in november, you know, makes it all the more cooler)

i had always tried to appreciate and enjoy the november rain, or get all moody and crank up my morrison, drink coffee not to stay awake to memorize yet another name of yet another useless face of the history, but to stay awake to read a few more pages of frost and to wonder whether or not the school actually resembles a poem of robert's (as a teacher pointed out a few weks past) and to finally conclude that it does not. i don't know what it resembles. maybe it does resemble frost. who knows...

anyways--two of the greatest things ever done honoring the bare days of November. One's playing in the background as I type these. A love song that could easily go up against any poem, novel, story you can find. looks like it won't rain tonight and we ran out of dark, misty november nights as of midnight---but make sure you give this one a try on some other november day when it rains.



not to mention that this is a man you look at and just assume he has a good heart. he may be a lot of things, but he just doesn't sem evil, you know. besides, he had the greatest hair of human history. scratch all this, just listen to the song, it'll tell you all the backgound info you need to enjoy, which is none.

second great thing of november. requires no introduction, no explanation. The poem that made me love novembers--the poem that made me love poems even more. one of those that will be in my head till the day i die.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.

R.F.

and i know all this seems a little misguided and lost within itself. but what can i do, i get all hasty when i get excited.

good bye is too good a word

gretest danger in the whole wide world must be conformity. someone might have said that before, i probably heard that somewhere, but it takes time for these kinda things to really pop up in your head. and it popped like an angry volcano right in the depths of my existence today.

one should never ever be condemned to yield to another. you can't exist unless you exist by yourself. i have known this all my life but over the past few weeks i had been letting it get away.

but now i'm back. you can't do much when you know you're very much likely just better than most. you can't let that fade away.

cut loose before it gets late

if i had the guts or the talent this may have been the very night that masterpieces came through. the right song is here enough coffee had been consumed even dug up some crammy building in ryerson street in nyc. all's ready. all could be forgiven on a night like this one. all is out there. and outside seems so ordinary pitch dark but just usual and who ever knows in which kinda darkness that the best of best lurks when it gets late and people expect poems to flow through pages. on switch and an off switch. how much power do we possess? how many end up with broken backs as earth rolls down to god knows where. i know all god knows and maybe even more.

...

if i had the power to destroy anything, i'd start with the human soul. i doubt there's anything more selfish in the whole wide world.

sure there are a handful worth a dime but let's face it one damn apple always manages to spoil the whole bunch.

take that then multiply that with six billion.

you get everyday life.

happy birthday

turns out the 27th has its own charms.



happy birthday jimi.

...

somethings in life need to be remembered often. this is one.

--show off

Meus animus audit solum virum cum caerulei oculi.
Eius verbum terrent mihi sed cupio ea tamen.

"beningn and salutary our Russian cold is, friends"

scratch that. it's a four day weekend, apparently.

god freaking bless the holidays. whether it's turkey on the table or sheep or a cow or just a loaf of bread--the holidays'll get in the mood. i honestly just love doing nothing in the holidays. a cup of coffee, a dylan song and a book....hallejuah.

anyways. i have tons to talk about--about "rain's little hands" and frost poems and about obligations and things you're proud of and thinngs you curse, about tiresome journeys and an unconscious attempts of swimming with the current, and sleep deprivation and why you would still be so moved to realize what an amazing song that song was that you have listened a million times, and family and sacrifise and religion and latin and friends and november and more...

but for now i'll just tell you this--

"Come, O comrade solitary
Of this cheerless youth of mine,
Take a cup, and let us bury
All our many woes in wine!"

Alexander Pushkin

...

man, finally, some fresh air.

i don't know why but these ast few weeks had been hell for school. so much crap to do--all the time.

i have a few more hours tomorrow then it's a three day weekend.

i should get some sleep.

...

isn't it funny how your brain just aches to go to the exact opposite direction from all your daily works and routines and how you just cramp and cramp to reach out for the ginsberg and try for the pushkin and not give a rat's freaking ass about any other bs like interviews and surveys and midterms?

and it always happens in that time of the year.

i'm making myself dizzy thinking about things these days.

hey hey fyodor dostoevsky i wrote you a song

I believe there are only a few people in the world that experienced an epiphany like I did. And my ground breaking revelation had roots way back to a noble November day in Moscow. I don’t know whether it was morning, or evening; though it would have made it sound prettier. But I’d rather keep it simple than to lie about it.

It was November 11, 1821. That’s all I know.

About 190 years after that, I was putting down a book back on the shelf. This thick, mean, bitch-of-a-reading book. I had been dragging it along for weeks, in the middle of all the tests and exams and studying, it had just silently stuck with me. It wasn’t too friendly or anything, the more I tried to figure it out, the more it got tangled in my head. But I held my breath and I finished it. It was the weirdest experience of my life. I put it down knowing something was now set. Something had changed.

It was all downhill after that. I had, without my knowing, had had a glimpse at the godliest thing I would ever come across. A god who can dance—and pretty good, too.
So now, I have that start point, that moment of clarity, that very second in which everything makes itself visible. I have that very instant which I will tell my children, and the children of their children, and everyone else who would ever take the time of the day to get to know me. I will point back to that day, that mystical day in which I changed drastically, the day that was the beginning of everything in me and about me. It was the day I put away that book. Crime And Punishment. That was what the book was called.

The day I knew, for the first time, what it felt like to read Fyodor Dostoevsky.
If there’s ever a birthday that needs to be celebrated, I’ll say this is it.

Now I could sit here and type words for hours, and you’d still not understand. No one would. It’s a journey you have to take on your own, and forgive me, but it’s a very privileged one. I’ve seen many crumble at the doorstep, and I‘ve seen many who couldn’t even make it there. I’ve seen people not getting it. I’ve seen people not feeling it. Because I assure you kids, it’s not about brains, it’s not about historical facts, it’s nothing about being all too well read and well knowing. It’s about closing you eyes and being able to reach out to it. Some may grab it; fold their fingers over spirits of the truest forms. Some will miss it.

You have to accept faithfully what had been given to you. I saw in a flash of light the dark, fiery eyes of Mitya, the innocence of Alyosha, the sincerity of Ivan; I saw the paranoid, self destructive Rodya in his painful existence; I saw Alexey smirk right before he put everything out on the table; I saw Myshkin’s pale face lying next to his dead beloved—yes I’ve seen it all, everything, and if not more, and I was there, in every second of it, I was at the heart of things and in the hearts of men, noble and honest, passionate, burning; and it happened right before my eyes.

Long story short, if there is ever a god, people; he must be jealous as hell that this feeble, suffering fella born on just another November day had created, somehow, far better and far precious things than he himself ever could.

Happy past birthday Fyodor.

...

i figured there are two kinds of people in this world: people you are capable of getting mad at, and people who you're not. the first ones are the ones you just want to be convenient. you want them to play the parts. that's all you really want them to do--and when they don't you get pissed. that's all there is to it. You need people to pass the time, after all.

then there are the people you truly love. people who would do just about anything--and you'd still feel all right. you won't feel violated---you don't feel screwed over. you just wouldn't care.

the first group under my list is pretty crowded--just about everyone else.

November 11th

Yes, I do know what today is and will talk about it in depth, but now I have the petty obligations of life breathing down my neck. But I will-and I repeat, I will write about it.

"Therein is my whole horror--that I comprehend everything." --F.M.D

ata

bu bloga yazılmış yazılacak tek türkçe yazı bu olacak. milliyetle kanla kökle alakası yok bunun, sadece O'nunla kurulmaya çalışılan bağın kişiselliği, sıcaklığı, samimiyetiyle ilgili.

bu bütün dogmalardan, çocukluğun ezberletilmiş şiirlerinden, kalıplardan, kalıplaşmalardan, yapılandırılmalardan, senelerden, asırlardan, düzenlerden, politik her eylemden arındırılmış, tamamen insanlığı kalmış bir sevgi. tümüyle Kişi'ye, Kişi'nin yüzüne, sözüne, eylemine duyulan bir sevgi. Anneye, babaya, dedeye duyulana yakın, arkadaşa duyulandan biraz daha tedbirli, sevgili duyulandan daha az bencil... Dostoyevski'ye duyulan gibi bir sevgi. Sözlere, kelimelere, dizelere duyulan gibi.

Bir insanın bir insana duyabileceği gibi bir sevgi.

Anlarsınız ya da anlamazsınız, kabul edersiniz ya da etmezsiniz, inanırsınız ya da inanmazsınız... ama eğer hissetmezseniz paylaşamaycaığımız bir sevgi.

Cennet varsa bir kösesinde bir kadeh rakı, arkasından da şekerli bir Türk kahvesi, iki güzel dize, bir de teşekkür borçluyum sana Ata. Bir gün olurda anlatırım belki daha neler borçlu olduğumu...

"the morning is flying on the wings of his age--"

Awake, my sleeper, to the sun,
A worker in the morning town,
And leave the poppied pickthank where he lies;
The fences of the light are down,
All but the briskest riders thrown
And worlds hang on the trees.

Dylan Thomas

Funny how we go through our days not knowing what they can possibly mean to anyone else. Here, a death. November 9, 1953. That makes...56 years? Is that it? A lifetime after a life's time.

Don't worry Dylan, when it starts raining again and I feel like seeing the world from the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and all the joys seem suffocating and all the grieves noble, all the melancholy in the world that you so cruelly made so beautiful--- I'll remember you again. And it'll be like you died just today.

say that you want the kind of things that money just can't buy

"The man we can call with justice 'modern' is solitary." --C.J.

True. But then again, at some point, you have to make peace with that. Let it all go. Anger and resentment wears you out. That's what I've learnt. I'm not talking about forgiving--that sounds so conceited--i mean genuine letting go. see things in a different light. i don't know--be happy for someone. reach out. million to one--you'll get burnt, but--you know, there are always happy beatles songs to turn that frown upside down.

now people just get uglier and i have no sense of time

ok i'm officially beat up and tired.

i was sick for days last week--and i'll admit, it was fun first, you know, all the uber attention you get and mom's constant couch service--but it gets boring, sooner or later. so i was back on my feet on monday--and now i'm back in bed. rain's not treating me good these days, it feels good to get all wet and emotional, but i just can't seem to get better. something triggers the illness again and bam, i'm done.

i did learn one thing though--you can't write much when you're not sound in the head. health turned out to be precious after all. so i don't really have that much to say, i'm tired, coughing my lungs out and have a mean headache.

but i will say this; human beings are in need of each other's attention almost pathetically. all you can think of when you're lying down in fever is who had noticed your absence--or who'll give you a call in a minute. The outcome of that? well, that's something to talk about for another day. now i have to run.

be well.