Posts Tagged ‘art’

It is red hot outside and cicadas are singing …or are they screaming, I am not quite sure but I can feel the joy in their tone. There is a middle aged couple in the pool trying to challenge time but I can see the pain in their love…Children laugh with fear of their dependency in the corner of their eyes with the most beautiful sparks…I look at the immortal mountains and walk back inside…

I always write at the table,I don’t want to do that anymore. So I am sitting under the table on the hard floor and typing. No I am not trying to be different or crazy.I am fucking bored…no maybe not bored but maybe a little tired…no,maybe not even tired but sick…sick? No, maybe not even sick but all of it…tired of chasing love and end up with disappointment…bored of hearing the same talk everywhere I walk…sick of games little creatures play to feel superior to each other…tired of the hot weather that makes me sleepy in the climax of my dialogue with the Infinite Consciousness…I mean I hate it when I find myself hugging an angel as soon as I close my eyes while trying to go beyond consciousness and wake up screaming as she turns into a murderer. I constantly feel betrayed these days…yes, that is it…I feel betrayed…

fire of life

No, I am not yet enlightened, I know that. They say if you think you are enlightened go and spend a week with your parents. I cannot stand to hear my mum’s voice even over the phone. Yes I have forgiven her but what she did to me still hurts…it hurts no matter how much I grow…Well, anyway, let’s forget about that…God must have chosen the wrong angel for me when I arrived in the world…maybe it is too soon to say that because I am not in the end yet…but I am ready…cause I never hurt anyone unless I had to take revenge…yes, that is the only feeling I cannot resist…God how will I learn that?

I have been burning with the desire to sing Adele’s song as fiery as her ever since I heard it without knowing why. Here are the lyrics:

“There is a fire starting in my heart,

Reaching a fever pitch,

It is bringing me out the dark,

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go ahead and sell me out

And I’ll lay your shit bare.”

Now I know why the song has been burning me every time its notes reached my ears. It is about everything I have been feeling about life and love…it is about disappointment of love, betrayal and revenge…obviously an angel has turned into to a bloody murderer in her life, too. She is bleeding…but still there is a joy in that… I can feel it. Joy of expressing her heart, joy of making art…even cicadas want that, too. They scream all day long…maybe they don’t make art but they are the art…but if they have heart they have fire…so they have to express their fire…fire of being…fire of love…fire of life…they have to tell us how it feels to burn…






Critiques of Dick

He was tall,big and known to be bold. His name was Dick. He used to write gossips about girls and boys for a magazine in the past. Back then, his journalist friends called him Dick Hardy.What they really meant was that he was impotent, weak, little guy inside. How some knew about his impotency and weaknesses did not bother anyone. After all he was officially gossiping about everyone.

And one day he resigned; he resigned from his job unexpectedly. He moved to another city and detached himself from everyone.He decided to be a new man.He began writing reviews for a national newspaper.He wanted to feel a little more important and potent, but he knew he wasn’t.

the big little man 33

He reviewed plays, novels, movies for a well- known newspaper. Six months after he began his new job, his editor realized that he was he was harsh on female novelists, playwrights and directors but understanding and soft to the male ones.

“Dick, I decided to study your all the reviews you have written for us so far after receiving unpleasant letters from readers,” said his editor in his late 40s when they sat in his office.

“Unpleasant letters?” asked Dick.

“Yes, many of them,” replied the editor decisively. Dick could not believe him.

“No, that has got to be a joke, it cannot be real,it must be a smear” he said to his editor without a word.

“I studied tone of your reviews and your critiques… I discovered something amazing,” said the newspaper editor.

“What is it?” asked he, unsure what to expect anymore. “Before answering your question, answer me, do you have some issue with women?” asked the editor.

“No…no…I mean…why would I…did you find any sexist expression in my reviews?” asked Dick, holding the arm rest of his chair firmly.

“No,no it is not what you say actually it is what you don’t say in your reviews suggests that you might be misogynist.” replied the editor frankly.

“I strongly disagree with you on that!” replied Dick, feeling tense.

“I understand your defense perfectly well but this is not my opinion only,” replied the editor wisely.

Dick looked at his right side and the left; he did not see what appeared in his sight.

“What do you suggest?” he eventually asked,feeling frustrated.

“I suggest you should analyse your own thoughts and feelings towards women, even your own critiques…and I will let you be off for two weeks for that,” said the editor.

“Paid or unpaid?” asked Dick immediately.

“Unpaid,” replied the editor.

“Okay, but I am not misogynist, if you want to blame anyone, you should look at the society! Don’t you think we live in a misogynistic society anyway?” he asked angrily.

“Don’t you think we are here to reform the society?” asked the editor.


Hello, you have just read the beginning of the this week’s story. Those of you who are already part of the Magic Book Writing Project know what to to next.

If you wish to join now and become the co-author of next Ka Book, visit Magic Book Writing Project.


psychosisMagic Book Writing Project

3:57 Psychosis

3:57! Are you not coming? Come on, jump in! Or we will be going! This is the only 3:57 Train!

Wake up! I woke up! Look around! I looked around! What is the time? 3:57. Get up! I got up! Someone died! Who? You don’t know? No! Then why did you wake up! I don’t know; I just did.

“I am bored and dissatisfied with everything”

Yes, I remember she said that, but I was not there. I did not even know her!

“I am a complete failure as a person I am guilty”

Yes, she said that, too! Oh God!

“I am being punished I would like to kill myself”

Oh no!

“I used to be able to cry but now I am beyond tears

“Yes, but what do you want me to do? She is not here!

“I have lost interest in other people I can’t make decisions”

I wish I was there.

“I can’t eat”


“I can’t sleep”

“I can’t think”

“I cannot overcome my loneliness, my fear, my disgust”

“I am fat”

“I cannot write”

“I cannot love”

“My brother is dying, my lover is dying, I am killing them both”

“I am charging towards my death”

“I am terrified of medication”

“I cannot make love”

“I cannot fuck”

“I cannot be alone”

“I cannot be with others”

“My hips are too big”

Stop it! Stop it! Do not repeat! That was a psychosis! It was a fucking psychosis! Do not repeat it! She could have lived!

Why? Are you scared? No! Then what? Nothing! I knew I was not supposed to go see that scene! I knew! Why, what happened? That’s I don’t know! I have been hearing that train since then! What train! 3:57 Train.

You have just read the first half of the next week’s project as a part of “Magic Book Writing Project”.I dedicated this story to a great author who I had no chance to meet but whose spirit I felt through her work . Please complete it with a sensitive and tender heart.


“I love the way you cry, you do it pretty well.”, said the old man.

She looked puzzled, she had never received such a reaction before. She could not call it a compliment,nor was it an insult.

“Oh,God! Luckily I have such an artful make up on!”, she thought to herself and decided to throw a wide smile at him as an answer. Was that going to stop him?

“I wonder what made you decide to sell tears and sorrow to people?”, he repeated.

“That is my art Sir!”, she replied.

“Couldn’t you choose a better one?”

“It is the best apparently, millions of people love it.”, she said and smiled with a pride.

“That does not mean anything.”, replied the old businessman.

Everybody at the table became quiet all of a sudden.  Why was he attacking her?, was the question in everyone’s eyes.

She thought about leaving the table just how any pop star would do, but somehow she wanted to stay and discover what was going on in the old man’s heart.

The woman on fire...

The woman on fire…

“What do you do Sir?”, she asked. Almost every pair of eye opened wide by this line. She observed the tension but tried not to feel it.

“I sell solutions to the world, in fact I create a new world for people, what do you do?”

“You have watched my performance haven’t you? I sing.”

“Do you really?”

“How do you create a new world if the world is the same old world, Sir?. Hahahaha!

“Just like yourself!”

“He must have drunk too much tonight!”, his business partner, sitting on the left side of the old man, whispered to his wife!

“I think you should take him out of here darling.”, his wife replied.

“Would you please excuse us?”, said he and held the old man’s arm.

“We have to go Mr Freeman,  we are already late.”

“Oh, no no!”, Mr Freeman replied. “We will be all right if we stay for a few more minutes.”, he resisted.

“Please let him stay, it is quite entertaining to have him around!”, the lady pop star interrupted.

“Entertainment is your business you little monkey!”, he exploded!  “Stop making people cry! Stop depressing them first,then laughing at them at the back of the stage! Worst of all, stop making money out of their pain!”

“Don’t you do the same Sir! Don’t you make money out of people’s pain?”

“I create solutions to their pain, I create a rainbow when it rains, I don’t sell them tears and call it art!”

“Exactly,your source is also pain! Plus, they need tears, too!”

They can cry when they want to, you don’t need to stir up their hearts, make them cry and pretend you feel the same pain while you are perfectly happy!

“I do not pretend Sir,that is my art!”

“Do you know what, don’t call yourself a singer!”


“Because, you are a liar!”

“No I am not!”

“Oh yes, you are, you are a sadistic liar! How can you be happy by depressing people? And why should they care about how you felt when your lover, quite rightly, left you years ago? And don’t you think you are bit sick if you are still singing songs about that guy?”

“Don’t you think you are a bit sick Sir, shouting at me like that!”

“Oh God! Oh God!” , screamed a young paparazzi. “That is terrible!” , the other one yelled. ” What is wrong Roxy!”, asked the third one enthusiastically!

“What made you so angry Mr Freeman!” , the other one shouted.

People at the table began to leave but it was almost impossible now, over fifty journalists were around the table.

“Hey Roxy! Tell us what happened!”

“Ask Mr Freeman!”, she exclaimed while trying hard to hold her tears…

The new year began last night. Neighbors on the top floor made so much noise, but happy noise. Maybe four generations of their family got together. They played traditional music and danced. All of them were happy just like little kids with their mums and favorite toys. I admired them but it also annoyed me.

2014 must have been miserable year for most people, otherwise they would not be so happy that it was finally over. They were going mad outside, throwing fireworks into the air over and over again. To them this is how they were welcoming 2015 but wasn’t that what they did for 2014 just 364 days ago? Poor 2015 will be experiencing the same betrayal only 364 days later. It is hard to get people these days or something must be wrong with me. If I was the one who was missing the happiness, then yes, it was supposed to be me.

fireworks 2

The songs those teenagers played on the wet and dark streets of Istanbul were crying out anger and sorrow, turning each one of them into Mona Lisa of their kind. Rihanna’s songs sounded too fake and too empty for their realities on the other hand. Yes, love was universal and a universal but it had different colour in different cultures. This society had its own values, its own problems, its own needs, its own realities and it had to sing its own songs to give birth to its new self.

It was raining sometimes snowing outside. No year ever gives us the desert first. They all begin bitterly cold. I did not turn the heater on, since I was still transforming myself and not being very productive. Or maybe I was subconsciously punishing myself again. I did not invite anyone nor did I want to be with someone. You were there on the same chair. All your enthusiasm, expectations, hopes for a brighter future, were still in your beautiful brown eyes. You wanted to tell me what you had written last night but you changed your mind. Maybe you thought I was going to criticize you. God forgive! I don’t do that to people anymore. And we finally began talking about art and movies, because we both wanted to show people our interpretations of the world, or to tell them how much life hurt.

I have no appetite these days. Or maybe I am punishing myself without realizing once again for not being as good as I am supposed to be. For not being a proper sister for you, for not being able to escape from my own prison and tell you what you actually mean to me. For not being able to help you flourish just when you needed me, for not being able to touch you at least once, to give you strength and courage. For not being able to open my doors and tell you how much I actually loved you…Happy new year to you. To my only brother.

Dark room, pink curtains, the sun seems to have promised herself to blossom every living being. It paints the walls into pink through the little gaps between every thread of the curtain. The ceiling is in my eyes, my eyes are on the ceiling and it is not yet pink somehow. Pain in my shoulder, goes to my groin, stays there, increases, leaves its half there and moves all the way from my thighs, legs and toes. It introduces itself to all my bones, muscles, veins, arteries and it makes sure that they all know it very well, it rules, it dictates every piece that exists in my consciousness.

There is a knock on the door. Should I bother? Should I? Still knocking, getting inpatient. It must be important. I should get out of bed, but my pain, in all my veins. Oh God! It is all vain! I am coming! I am coming! Let’s have a look, Hell! That can’t be true!Didn’t she die last March? What? That must be a nightmare, no daymare! Or, or is this how one’s end begins? No I am not opening the door! I should not!


Arthur: Hey I know you are there, open the door!

Melanie:  Where am I?

Arthur: Behind the door!

Melanie:Where are you?

Arthur: Behind the door!

Melanie:Why can’t I see you, or touch you?

Arthur: Because you have not opened the door!Just open the bloody door!

Melanie: Door? Open? And I open the door.

Arthur: What the hell have you been doing behind the door?

Melanie: I was, I was a bit confused and I was, I was in pain…

Arthur: Yes, you should be!

Melanie: I should be?

Arthur: And you will have more pain if you keep doing that…

Melanie: Doing what?

Arthur: Whatever you have been doing since March…

Melanie: Hang on! Didn’t you die in March? How comes you are here, asking me this and that?

Arthur: That is what you know. Anyway, you must pay your debt!

Melanie: Debt of what?

Arthur: Of your silence!

Melanie: About what?

Arthur: About my death.

Melanie: What was I supposed to do?

Arthur: Investigate, ask, find…

Melanie: Find what?

Arthur: My murderers.

Melanie: Your murderers?

Arthur: Yes, my bloody murderers!

Melanie: Did you not die of cancer?

Arthur: Yes, that’s how everything started, but how did I come to that point?

Melanie: How?

Arthur: Don’t play me dull, you know how, didn’t you write it down? All you don’t know is what you really know and how you don’t know what you know.

Melanie: No, no I admit I am a bit dumb, I stopped writing things down.

Arthur: See, I knew that you knew.

Melanie: Knew what?

Arthur: Why did you stop writing things down?

Melanie: Nothing was worth.

Arthur: True you can’t write about nothing, but surely you can’t see the nothing, because it is nothing. So what did you see but said nothing, wrote nothing about it?

Melanie: Did you come all the way from your grave to find this out?

Arthur: That’s not the answer. What did you see but said nothing and wrote nothing about it?

Melanie: Can you take me to my bed before I travel to your land?

Arthur: True. Peace only resides in my land, never forget that!

Melanie: Well said, but I don’t want that just yet. Please take me to my bed, I can no longer bear.

Arthur: Does it get better when you are in bed?

Melanie: No, not really, pain is still there in my guts, groins, bones almost everywhere.

Arthur: When did it start?

Melanie: Soon after your death.

Arthur: My death, let’s go back and investigate. What did you see, witness or even experience but said nothing and wrote nothing about it?

Melanie: Lots of deaths.

Arthur: Where?

Melanie: In the big and little squares, almost everywhere. First I saw it in Slone Square where an author made fun of death that occurred in the war million times even more, and  I saw the death of audiences who applauded his lines with no breath, and I saw the death of our humanity and I saw, I think I saw the killer also.

Arthur: Why did you say nothing, or write nothing?

Melanie: I was almost breathless by the blindness of public.

Arthur: You said they died.

Melanie: They were blind as if they were not alive.

Arthur: What did you see next?

Melanie: I saw group of men in Shepherd’s Bush, who claimed to be author and director but reminded me of George W Bush. Somehow they sounded like they were troubled with their manhood and had the courage to write about women.But they made themselves like little Gods in women’s world where women were unable to think about nothing but penis. The poor actresses had to suck plastic penises and hysterically cried.That was death of their art, as they failed to see anything but their penises which obviously have puzzled them maybe even overwhelmed them and not allowed them to see anything  else in such a tumultous time of the history. But it was a good effort to spread the fog in some heads which were almost dead. And their hands, their hands applauded and applauded.

Arthur: Why did you not say all those things?

Melanie: Because as soon as I tell the truth about anything, I get labelled as feminist and I hate it.

Arthur: Without a name, you can’t exist.

Melanie: Women have no real name.

Arthur: Don’t you think they exist?

Melanie: Their existence is reduced to only one and same the purpose.

Arthur: But they can increase it as long as they still exist and resist. So what are the other deaths you witnessed?

Melanie: I saw the death of morality in man and woman for the sake of non-violence relationship. I saw the death of respect for human mind and human life. I saw this on the youngest stage of Peterman who sat a suit with no man in it and forced the audiences wear it. But that suit was the suit of a sinner who immoralised a very happy family life.They killed and laughed, they killed and laughed, and people, too, laughed and applauded.The Theatre of Cruelty had its last moment on the stage, they laughed and applauded.

Arthur: Why did you keep quiet?

Melanie: My mum always told me to keep quiet when I have nothing nice to say. And those people who laughed were happy, I didn’t want to spoil their happiness even though it wasn’t real.

Arthur: Happiness is the weakest moment of human beings, it is their darkest blindness.They can accept the unacceptable at those moments.You are responsible to show people what you see and hear and let them see and hear.

Melanie: Yes, yes I know that and I will never forget.But it is not just that, I saw another author and director in the best part of Licester Square.They were showing the best ways of making noise quietly and very statically rather than liberating people with their art. Oh , I can feel it in all my veins.

Arthur: Pain?

Melanie: Yes, it is terrible. But not as much as the smile of a man who stood by a dead man’s head with no respect and laughed.

Arthur: Did you also lose that?

Melanie: Apparently yes. But Hirst did that in his driest thirst. He had no message about death apart from some shock waves he insensitively tried to send to the viewers’ heads. If he really cared, he would have also added the dead bodies of WWI to Vietnam War, from Afghanistan War to Iraq War, from Libya to…He would have added dead  bodies of children who were abondaned and died of starvation in various part of this globe…

Dead souls of every shopping mall , of every hole of every high road, of every highly materialised piece of art which has no better idea than making a diamond skull, while it undermines and attacks every skull that are currently alive. I am, I am , I am no longer a-l-…


Hirst’s Diamond Skull.

Arthur: That’s my death.

Melanie: No it is my death, I am , I am d-e-a…

Arthur: They will materialise our dead bodies and sell them to others….They will monetize our…

Melanie:They will monetise our dead heads, legs and our va…Oh I don’t even want to imagine…

Arthur:Hirst is very good at that, I am sure they will hire him…

Melanie: Let’s go to your grave!I no longer want to stay…

Arthur: No,let’s go to Hirst’s place and see what he is licking at the moment.Flesh or a dead bum…

Melanie:Let’s go…

13 days have passed since I saw the art having a heart attack for almost three hours on the great stage of National Theatre, Olivier,but couldn’t resuscitate. I have remembered it at least once or twice a day and wanted to raise my voice to get rid of the guilty feeling of not being able to rescue the art for 13 days, however my mother’s words got louder in my mind. “If you don’t have anything nice to say just keep quiet!”

When I visited National Theatre once again,today, I have decided to ignore my mother’s words and shout back at Mike Bartlett’s play “13”as loud as it shouted at me for two and a half hour. Disturb it as much as it disturbed me with its lack of creativity and artistic sensitivity, cause its makers to lose their sleeps just like they did to me and in the end asked me sarcastically how I am  sleeping these days.

“13” is at National Theatre,Olivier.

None of us have been sleeping well since we entered the”Awakening Era” .Since we were woken up by WikiLeaks from a long term confusion that had been injected us in the name of Modernism. Since almost every government declared “Information War”against their own people, since uprisings and protests spread the world faster than light speed and bled billions, left millions of dead behind,since we had no voice to stop any of those wars, since we witnessed that laws were there to protect the rich and silence the poor, we lost our sleep. We are all aware that the global turmoil will continue and we will remain insomniac until the world changes in a way we want.

However none of us are ready to look into mirror neither to see our loss or our insomniac face nor the damage of the change which we have been trying to bring to the world , yet.

Have you ever looked into the mirror straight after you had a car crash while you were still bleeding or straight after your surgery while your wound was still recovering? What would be  your reaction if you had to?The expected reaction is that any human being would get scared,panic and naturally scream in that situation.That is what exactly happens when artists mirror the social or political chaos on the stage while it is still ongoing and while people are still trying to recover from it. There is no way of stopping us from screaming unless (s)he suggests  some real solution to the situation in an artistically sensitive way.

Bartlett doesn’t only hold us a mirror to show how terribly we have bled and are still bleeding; he doesn’t only show us how horrible our wound looks after the surgery, but he also excitedly acknowledges us that we have to go through another big surgery, which is Iran War, like an insensitive surgeon, in his new play “13”.At this point he scares the audiences, makes them feel guilty of the situation and distances them from art. Bartlett also undermines the intelligence of his audiences when the play starts to sound preachy rather than witty, maybe without realising.

These are not the only reasons that bring failure to Bartlett’s “13”, the weak connections between too many characters, shaky ground of the plot that lacks a deeper-broader research about Middle East and its connections with the World, judging possible Iran War from only West’s point of view,not inadequate but artificial empathy for the Middle Eastern people whose countries were attacked and who were victimised by the West,whose victimisation stories cashed in by opportunistic Western artists, are the other elements that make audiences even more insomniac when they leave the theatre.

Audiences don’t go to theatre and spend almost three hours to get irritated and preached at too loud on the false basis. Any artist who respects her/his audiences should and would know that. Otherwise they will be attacking even abusing  art as well as art lovers.