Turkey, Pt.1 Türkiye
May, 2023
Dusk on the Sea of Marmara. I’ve been attacking the days, staying awake most nights; taking nocturnalism to extremes; feeling spent but full, hopeless, quite wild. All fades away; it seems pointless getting angry at anything, or anyone, anymore.
I look after my body, clean the house, pay my bills, keep on top of my inbox. But slowly, irrevocably, I am realising the extent of the physical; the old tricks just don’t work anymore. There is a longing for solitude ––for something more than this,––simmering in me these days in Turkey. I left Holland, changed the scenery, but inside i am still on fire. I do all I can to keep the lid on. Simmering, simmering....
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It is election time here in the Republic: a tight race between 20-year-incumbent Recep Tayyip Erdoğan and reformist Kemal Kılıçdaroğlu. At rallies in Istanbul and Bursa, the wolf call goes up to the heavens; the biggest flags I have ever seen in my life, blazing red silk adorned with the star and crescent; slogans and song pound from boom boxes and the children of proud parents glee in ignorance.In Izmir on the Med Coast last week though, high up in the slums above the city on old Mt. Pagos, the faces of dirt-poor people––shockingly poor––speak nothing of such commotion and showmanship; microcosms of the African, Arab and Turkish dregs of society. The wash-ups of our great economic system; up there no politician’s concerned face hugging a baby or a crying elderly woman, just so overcome with nationalism; or in all their glory standing in front of a fleet of aircraft carriers, aviators on, Top Gun style. Hollywood, baby.
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At the docks in Mudanya, my companion and I drink tea some nights. There is an old man there who speaks some English, at least enough to understand one another, far more than most. He brings us boiling hot black tea and interjects with catch phrases in English; seemingly at random, metaphysical, deeply allegorical, rooted in an interpretation of our interaction that on the surface does not make sense, but later, sets the mind ablaze. That man is a prophet.
Last night as we get up to leave he says:
‘Time is flying!’
The words repeat in me all day.
'So strange, what does he mean?!' It drives me crazy!
I tell him this evening:
‘Time is flying’, and tap the side of my head.
He elaborates, tells me he used to live in London in the 70s. A radio programme on the BBC would close off each night with those words.
As he rushes past some time later he says:
Last night as we get up to leave he says:
‘Time is flying!’
The words repeat in me all day.
'So strange, what does he mean?!' It drives me crazy!
I tell him this evening:
‘Time is flying’, and tap the side of my head.
He elaborates, tells me he used to live in London in the 70s. A radio programme on the BBC would close off each night with those words.
As he rushes past some time later he says:
‘I cry today already, so tomorrow I don’t cry.’
I laugh, not understanding the sentiment; he has his usual beaming smile on, glistening with silver teeth; how smile do mask the truth. How skilled we all are at lying through our proverbial teeth.
He walks past again with a tray.
‘Some days I am also feeling so lonely.’
‘Also? How does he know’...I think to myself.
On the way back, tray empty...
‘I miss my Mother so much.’
‘How many years ago did she pass away?
‘11’
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All this rushing around with website design, tax returns, optimisation, productivity, risk minimisation –blah, blah, blah: it really is all absolutely meaningless, though we wear it. But what goes beyond that for this bizarre creature, what leaves a greater trace in it, especially as it gets older, more reflective, closer to death
What will remain important when we look back on our great spectacle, with a deeper understanding?
Wishing you had called your Mother, while you knew she would still pick up. Letting whatever petty, silly thing you were fighting about with your loved one, just go. Hugging them, telling them they were right, that you were wrong, that you’re sorry and that you love them. Tame your ego––Love is your reward. It is all that is worth a damn.
As we leave the tea tent, I stand in the man's path as he clangs past. I hug him: I hold him so tight and he hugs me and squeezes me back. We stand there in silence as the world crashes around us. I feel like a human again; tears burst from my eyes behind my sunglasses as I walk amongst the campaigning crowds on the seaside boulevard. The sun is setting, the birds are going home. I feel blue and full; my heart overflows––King of Cups.
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