SCATTERED PHOTOGRAPHS

“I know this much: that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory.” ― Julian Barnes

Today, I couldn’t pull my gaze away from my father’s face. As he spoke, he looked slightly different from the photo in the album from when I was about 4 or 5. Now, he has more lines above his eyebrows. Lines that time drew with an eloquent precision. Like choosing the right words to say, when a situation required. Or finding a painting that articulates perfectly a random feeling you’ve had and decided to keep for yourself, because life is full of insignificant little emotions. But now you know, time wouldn’t let them pass. It will keep on carving... gently... delicately everyday… making from your beautiful human face its most life-affirming masterpiece.

He kept talking, and I kept skimming through the details of his face; his chin grew a little wider and his tanned skin has now a fluffier feel. However, his eyes were still the same. As I’ve always remembered them…they were a lighter shade of brown, sage and inviting. They glowed with a soul-piercing intensity when he stood in the light.

They weren’t the disturbingly intense kind, though. The color stimulates a vague urge to know more… know what he has been through over all those years to maintain such a look… an expression… an attitude towards life… You would want to know what makes him proud or what hurts him the most… and everything about that particular day… when he decided to grow a beard just to cover the scars of his face.

I thought only parents look to their kids with that intense focus. But today I did…with my fifty something year old father. He is still constantly reminding me of how I am still to him that 4 years old girl who smiles to the slightest provocation. A sarcastic grin creases my face, each time he says that. But definitely not today.

Today I’ve became a little detached from reality. Or maybe I’ve grown overly aware of the simplest details of life. Like aware of the fact that I was sipping coffee with my mother. I stood silent for a while. I was savoring the moment. There was something about being with her in the same space and in that particular moment that seemed to me somehow thought provoking. One doesn’t have the privilege to be with one’s mother all the time. We, children learn to be appreciative of our parents when we grow older, more independent…and especially after a prolonged absence.

She said to me: "Please say something. Say something or I will turn that TV on again. I don’t like this silence. Now I can hear the clock ticking. I cannot stand that sound. Just like in that book Le Papillion. Have you ever heard of it?"

Writer Feels

January 12, 2017

I need some sort of expression, a hiding place, a consolation, that the world is not ending.That it's not as ugly. I'll tell you my childhood memories, and my stupidest mistakes, does this count? Or would it be enough to make me believe, that this hate is not bigger ?

I see you beautiful people, those smiles, the friendly warmth around a fire, we chat and relate. You are hope! You make me feel alive again, Believe in something.These little things, they make me happy. But also can be the most irritating. It seems that, I have neglected somehow that I am sensitive. I always felt some sort of pressure to be strong, to stand my ground. Show resilience. But I am learning to embrace vulnerability more, to be gentle, to simply ask for what I need, even if it means exposing all the tender skin beneath the walls I've built , NOT to swallow back the ache in my throat and hold back the tears in my eyes. To own it. It's OK, NOT to be mysterious and charming. It's OK to be real.To show radical honesty.

It's OK sometimes NOT to abide by the pressure to leave some profound mark in this world. It's OK to be you now.  In fact, it's perfect. Everything is where it should be. You are now where you need to be. To soften and soothe. To slow down and notice.

I feel empty now, ethereal kind of empty, like the desert or the universe, a starry sky. Sometimes I forget to embrace my layers. I forget that I am complex. To surrender to my creative impulses, to let them burst, allow them to take the time and lonesomeness they need to develop, and fully unfold. That when I hold them in, I cannot be me. Just a fragment. Is what you see. There will always be something itching in me. Ready to explode gently, and beautifully.

June 2014,

Sometimes I just miss me, my thoughts, and what it is to be happy. This cup of black coffee, strangers I could have run into, places I could have been in now. But now I am here with the perfect kind of black. The smell, the freedom. I can be everywhere. I can be everybody. 

I stare into bottom of my cup. Black is never a sad color. Although it’s worn in funerals. In big ceremonies. I think people wear it to stand out. It shows a contrast against their skin. They want to be noticed but stay subtle. I hate this word, subtle. It’s delusional and charming. Maybe it’s why I’m always drawn into black. Maybe I should love white instead.

I could wear white. All white. It’s even a trend now. I could order a cup of hot white chocolate instead of coffee.  I could stare at the clouds. Weave weird new faces. Laugh at them and the way they surprise me. The shapes… I could handle the white page of my notebook I have to face every morning. Color it up with white words. Foamy and plain. But white scares me. It’s just very white. Black is purer. Black is more human.

June

I thought about the black and white pictures I used to admire. They are never black and white. They are grey.  Just different shades of grey. Exquisite and dreamy. It’s the way I remember every building. Every special face. The optimistic spice seller with a Mashmoom flower tucked to his right ear, the Madame in high heels in her feeble attempt to catch the train, high school couples. Clouds of smoke, the sound of coffee machines, my feminist grandmother. Grey faces. Grey buildings. Grey memories. Grey sounds. It’s a world of truth, here.

I love to write about it. It makes me want to listen to Phillip Glass. Draw my own world of glass. But I will always wonder about the next wild party. The new friends. I just love people as much as I love this. To write.

I don’t know if it’s just me, but I want to live as many lives as I can. Learn as much as I can, through books and people I meet. Places and thought-provoking conversations. Sometimes music. I should choose one profession and build a constant career instead of jumping between things I am enthusiastic about. But I cannot settle. I love so many things to choose. Why do we have to choose anyway? When we can be good at so many things and we have a lifetime to try. A lifetime is never enough though, to wonder about all “the roads less travelled by”.

Yes. Robert Frost always comes to my mind when I think about existential matters. If we just didn’t have to choose. If we just were silly and thought about only having kids and settling with that someone. Someone with a smart spark of kindness. But maybe then, I wouldn’t be writing this. I would be less curious and more content.

If I just cared less about science, social justice, fashion and writing. Then I think I would be happier. Fulfilled. I haven’t felt fulfilled in a while. Will I ever be fulfilled though? I have to read more, to travel more, to write more, love and give more to the world. I have to stretch, to expand this space of land I am stuck in.

But then I wake up in the morning. This beautiful mess I have to sweep. Keep things minimal and clean. I have even traded Glass for Chopin. I am stable and growing. Taking the risk of no risks.  What is life but our constant fluctuation between extremes, seeking balance the process.

We go through high school where time seems to never pass. We enjoy the little things of life with a striking naiveté and joie de vivre. We go to college. Get a degree. Get a job. Get married. But live is still boring.  We think of having kids. Feel young again. Fill the empty spaces. We always have to fill the empty spaces. Find God. But life is still boring.

We still have to wake up in the morning, make a living and go home because we need something or someone to escape to.  Nevertheless, life is boring still. Unless you’re creative.

I have to have enough ideas to fill one page a day. I envy those who have a discipline. Who make themselves do things. Writers. Great ones.  But I am not a writer. I am just someone who loves to contemplate things and take notes to remember how they felt like. Forever preserve them in ink and paper. Put down words as neatly as possible, as the mood takes you. Till it won’t hurt anymore. It’s nice to write without the pressure of having to write every day. It’s more about experience than habit, just like traveling. You abandon your daily routine and you engage in something greater than yourself. More little things and people.

I love the feeling of possibility that comes with traveling. The feeling of anticipation when the airplane lands in the grass. The lights. The miniscule buildings. I love how you become nobody, when you slowly disappear in the crowd. Or better, any anybody. It’s one of the rare times when your ignorance is beautiful. Your ignorance is exciting.

I will go for an espresso, he said with a confident tone. When you’d like your tiredness to disappear. Espresso is like a leap of faith, it shakes you off instantly like cold water in the morning, then you are wide awake and ready to face the world. when you're weary or uninspired. You listen to the weird sounds of a city.  

Maybe If was an artist, if  knew how to paint elaborate paintings, or talk like a charming story teller, maybe I will be satisfied. But I am not. I am just someone who sinks in ordinariness, who rather like to write words naturally than speak. I guess I am happier this way.

August 23, 2014

I can no longer feel. Everything is loud and crowded. My morning coffee, The sunlight. The faces. Circles taking me and tossing my brain. I will close my eyes and start over another day. Maybe another day.

I don’t like loud people. Those who want to speak, who listen to you only to come up with an answer. I am more with the silent, yet outspoken. The kind, the misfit. They make me wonder about what’s going on in their heads. Those I cannot always read. These people are the most exciting thing in the world.

It’s a nice August afternoon. The beach looks surreal in the dawn. My hair is light. Fishermen in the morning. Humming sounds of water as they travel. The little island looks bright. But I miss November. I need to feel things. I need a lively newness.

September 1^st, 2014

There are days when there are no words in the holes between my ribs. I seek books; listen to the echoes of someone else’s vague existence.

I will let these inadequate thoughts rest, and breed. I will feel better in the morning.  I will be genuinely interested in people, their lives, again.

Today I am lonely. I will spend my life missing people I never met. The void they crease. Their absence. Life would be bearable if they were here. Will they ever be though. I feel the weight of a 100 years.

September 13^th, 2014

Although Algiers seemed underdeveloped in terms of what a new visitor can do. There was a certain rawness to it. The buildings, the faces, even the language, the welcoming people. They sort of look up to you, as a Tunisian national. I hate speaking like this… like a political scientist, almost humorless.  I want colorful patterns. Intriguingly sanguine patterns of language. I feed on them.


June 2015,

Second day of grief in this complex landscape called my Tunisia, yet even in your darkest moments, you continue to inspire me, as you always did. To see you beaten, defeated, again, while you try to stand back on your feet.You, who knows best the pains of being stabbed in the back, by your own children.

In your jasmin, in your bleeding, the world watched you with curiosity, at times with admiration, at others with grief, atmost with doubt. You were never perfect. Vulnerable. That's where your strenghth lies. And beauty. You know who you are and you believe in what you can be. You continue, you move on. You believe in the power of life and love over distruction, and death. You make things happen. You create. And will regenerate.

Your blue will overwhelm their darkness. Coming in endless shades and hues. One day, your rainbow will come. Now, trust me,you will overcome.

July 10, 2015

It is such an intimate experience, to see a new day rise, the first couple of hours, where everything seems to be in slow motion.To be awake to the freshness coming with the first rays of sun, the momentary silence of the streets, sounds of fishermen in the water slowly halting their activities, watching people as they crawl back to work. 
This day is fierce. This day is mine.


August 14, 2015

Yesterday, Tunisian women's day by the measure of the modern democratic world, a vacation day by the measure of a working woman, another random day, in a random week of the month, by the measure of Baya, a young lady living in Kairouan, a city in the south west of Tunisia, one of the most underdevelped. I will let my thoughts linger to imagine what would it be like, to be a woman there, and would it be like to be a man, a young man.

This is a brief, late Tunisian Women's day reflection, although I don't believe in such occasions ( Men's day, anyone? ), but I have to admit it. It made me think about women inspirations that I relate to, including the one that marqued me the most; my grandmother. Reflections about feminism and my biggest female support system, which taught me a lot about being a GROWN WOMAN; (and singing QB in the shower! )

To open yourself to people, to allow yourself to be unapologetically vulnerable, growing and embracing imperfections, to accept misfortunes with graceful fierceness, to keep your joie de vivre, make fun of life, and ourselves, to make things happen to you and those around you, to learn to be more of a woman, a memorable one.

Sepetember 9, 2015

Drops of ink,
In my solitary morning,
I try to catch,
My flamboyant words,
Impalbable, fleeting,
With the end of August.You play with your strings,My effervescent thoughts,Until they die,In my monring coffee.


November 25, 2015,

I will not hate, nor fear nor hide.Your terror, will never outburst my color. Nor will I seek revenge, and feed your expired martyrdom, your perishing seeds, mortal. I will grieve but will live, cherish in youthful joy this city, this world. Make an art out of this living, eclectic, vibrant, genuine. Just like my city, and that will be my tribute. 

February 7 2016,

I don’t want to forget today, I woke up feeling exactly like myself, with itching unwoven stories, all the layers, all the colors, the space between my bones, in sunny tenderness and yearning, for a new day. I love this milky newness of Sunday mornings, coffee stained cups, oh gentle January. This perfect ordinariness. Now I can give to the word.

February 14, 2016

Today, I have no exquisite words to throw on your complex mood. But I'll be forever expanding, forever unfolding, in different shapes and unexpected twists. I love to watch you hold your cigarette, your perfumed elegance, with Edite piaff playing in your head, and a melancholic joie infused look on your face, almost nostalgic. 

Will this unstuck my inspiration? Living through people sometimes. This dull ordinariness suffocates me. One must live in order to write. I dread Monday mornings.

Afraid...

I am afraid of a godless life.

 I'm afraid that I won't love and be loved. That life is empty. That it will be this way.That I am too special or too ordinary. That my dreams will stay only in my head. That my eclecticism will prevent me from doing things till the end. That my fascination with art and creation will fail me. That I will be too practical or too imaginative. That I won't leave my mark in this mysterious journey called life. That I will age while leading an ordinary life.

I am afraid that my country is too small for my dreams and aspiration. That the feeling that I'm missing out another life in some other corner of the globe, will never disappear. That my wanderlust desires will be always itching me.That even when I'm away, I'll be always missing home. That I'll give up anything to go back. I'm afraid that I won't be afraid anymore. That nothing will challenge me to grow. That this will be the death of me, spiritually.

I'm afraid that this text is too poetical, too factual or pretentious. I am afraid that you will be consumed by it, that will will read till the end. Because just like me, you are insecure about certain things. You are afraid to say your fears out loud to yourself, to people, to friends and loved ones. Because it's easier. It's just easier if you don't.

I'm afraid that ink and paper won't be enough for my words. Or that my life won't be enough for them, words. That I will be too busy or too available. I'm afraid that you won't give me that smile of yours at the end of the day, the one that made me like you so much. That I'm too naive to think it will last . That I'm too pessimistic if think it won't.

 I am afraid that I will be less curious, to live for today. That I will be too alive to be contained in the expectations of tomorrow. That one day it will all make perfect sense. I 'm afraid that  I will use the word "perfect" in my writing, or in life in general.That I wont live between contrasts. That one day I will be balanced and content.

painting detail by Martine Johanna

A Daniel in Istanbul

“I think that we all must know a Daniel. Someone who aches to fill all of the deep spaces in their heart with good vibes, train tickets, and filthy hostel sheets. They live between points on the map, pocket pennies from odd jobs – teaching English in China, maybe, or shoveling dirt on a farm in Argentina – until they’ve hidden away enough to hop to another point, and another. But they’re always a strange mix of happy and unhappy; yearning and fulfilled; itching and running. As if their soul shattered at birth, and all the little fragments scattered about the corners of the globe.” Kristen Hedges

If you are a passionate globe trotter like me, you have probably cracked a wide smile while reading this. That was exactly my 1^st experience at World House Hostel in Istanbul, where I have met curious backpackers from the most unlikely places of the globe. In each one of them there was a “Daniel”, as contrasting, ancient and soulful as Istanbul itself. 

Each day, I would sit for breakfast by the window, watching travelers, shop keepers and cigarette smokers all march in a natural fashion, protesters too. I was once told by a random stranger to “Look at life in the face”. 

I woke up to the soul-piercing call of Adhan. I was baffled by the exuberant sunrise that welcomed

me into the mystique of an ordinary walk by the Bosphorus. I crossed the bridge to get a more picturesque grasp of the view; the buoyant image of the mosque, subtle charm of scattered ottoman buildings, and silvery seagulls hovering restlessly over the water.

It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon in Istanbul.  I run through the meandering lanes of the Spice Bazaar, seeking shelter. The smell, the soft tapping of the rain and humming sounds inside the bazaar as people halt their activities; all, made it a perfect Sunday afternoon.

After hours of walking in the bazaar, the bus took me through the sweeping water sceneries of Bebek neighborhood, only to find myself at a local fairy station in Karakoy. The Asian side was more than just a solace, whenever I wanted to escape the city’s frenetic pace. Alarmed by the sound of the engine, I followed the crowd of passengers as they rushed off the shore to the ferry.
 
The boat embarked, slowly leaving the shore and touristy area behind. You observe Galata tower as it shrinks little by little until drowning . You watch seagulls trying to keep up with the boat, in the foam and cold water. The fresh air awakens you senses and you get a little dreamy along the way. I felt my lungs inflate with the fresh scent of the ocean. I still remember how liberating it feels, just to be there on that specific time, in that peculiar space.

I could take a ferry everyday. Literally. The engine screams. The anchor kicks the bottom.. The humming of passengers takes over again in some resonant language, signaling the end of your dreamy voyage. Buildings start to vaguely appear. You are officially back to the modern world. 

I made my way through merchants and Simit sellers by the harbor. I sat in a café next an old German style Opera, where I could still see the floating shadows of Minarets in the water. Aoud melodies from the Opera were played, in some exquisite notes, as if probing the mysteries of your psyche like a detective. It has a strange sound, this instrument. It strikes your sorrow and lifts you up, gracefully.

I was caught in a protest in Istanbul. Although we were a couple of streets away, we couldn’t escape the effect of teargas. We were running and teargas kept spreading rapidly between tight streets and tall buildings. We kept running, having no clue which road led to which way. I was gasping for air and my eyes turned red. My allergy has worsened and I lost breath. I stopped. My friend handed me a small scarf to cover my mouth and nose. A group of people came running from the opposing street. There was no road left to go.

We thought it’s the end. One way there was tear gas and the other there was police with batons.  A squeaky door has opened. A tall bearded guy took us inside the shop. We were saved! We went to party in the same evening.

While I'm here in Tunis, I still feel that I am missing out another life, with every subtle detail. I miss that minutia of daily life, especially certain unique sounds; public transport, a woman in high heels in a feeble attempt to catch the ship and boats horn by the Bosphorus.

Sounds are such an interesting way to relate to a space, especially one with so much layers of history like Istanbul. It makes me want to listen to Arvo Part's Spiegel Im Spiegel and think -in black and white- about all these people from about a hundred years ago, who were in same ferry I took not so long ago. With some imagination, it struck me how these people are not so different from us. They are us, in a way. They are Humanity, just as much as we are now, and those who will follow us.

Aren't old-fashioned means -be it a ferry, an old train or a just a small package sent cross- culturally -  as fascinating as modern ones?  To me, they are. They add to Istanbul’s impalpable beauty and diversity, where the old and new interact in every facet of life.

At the end of the day, we are all a “Daniel”, travelers full of uncertainties, making our way through life but are not afraid to experiment. It’s all about that elusive state. Freedom.  But at the same time, we thrive to keep our leeching roots to the pulse of this next great thing to come.

Sometimes I just miss me, my thoughts, and what it is to be happy. This cup of black coffee, strangers I could have run into, places I could have been in now. But now I am here with the perfect kind of black. The smell, the freedom. I can be everywhere. I can be everybody.  

I stare into bottom of my cup. Black is never a sad color. Although it’s worn in funerals. In big ceremonies. I think people wear it to stand out. It shows a contrast against their skin. They want to be noticed but subtle. I hate this word, subtle. It’s delusional and charming. Maybe it’s why I’m always drawn into black. Maybe I should love white instead.

I could wear white. All white. It’s even a trend now. I could order a cup of hot white chocolate instead of coffee.  I could stare at the clouds. Weave weird new faces. Laugh at them and the way they surprise me. The shapes… I could handle the white page of my notebook I have to face every morning. Color it up with white words. Foamy and plain. But white scares me. It’s just very white. Black is purer. Black is more human.

I thought about the black and white pictures I used to admire. They are never black and white. They are grey.  Just different shades of grey. Exquisite and dreamy. It’s the way I remember every building. Every special face. The optimistic spice seller with  Mashmoom flower tucked to his right ear, the Madame in high heels in a feeble attempt to catch the train, high school couples. Clouds of smoke, the sound of coffee machines, my feminist grandmother. Grey faces. Grey buildings. Grey memories. Grey sounds. It’s a world of truth, here.

I love to write about it. It makes me want to listen to Phillip Glass. Draw my own world of glass. But I will always wonder about the next wild party. The new friends. I just love people as much as I love this. To write.