Ayem Blond

Canım sıkılıyor...
... diye başlamak ne kadar da saçma...
Belli ki bilinen bir şey bu. Canı sıkılmasa bedavaya yazar mı ki insan?

* * * * *
Şu Balyoz Davası canımı sıkıyor.

"O kadar uzaktan sıkılması kolay."
(İç sesim konuşuyor. Arada bir laf sokar böyle.)

Ne yapmalı, ne yapmalı... diyeceğim, iç sesim yine ters bir laf edecek.







* * * * *
Dağdakiler'i okudum, Kadri Gürsel'in. Yeni bitti.
Üzerine de YouTube'da Türkçe ve yabancı dillerdeki PKK videolarını izledim.

İçim karardı. Karanlıktı zaten, ama daha da...

"Bu konuya gireceksen efendi gibi beyninin korteks kısmıyla başladığın bir yazıda gir. Canım sıkıldı mıy mıy mıy diye başladığın bir yazıda değil."
... diyor yine iç ses. "Ya da belki hiç girmesen daha iyi."
Sinir!


* * * * *
Bir kaç gün önce eski dans partnerimle parkta oturuyoruz, gece...

Haa bak ben dansçıydım eskiden, hiç anlatmadım değil mi? Sonra anlatayım.

Neyse işte, oturuyoruz. Elimizde biralar...

... ki sokakta alkollü içki içmek yasadışıymış, Kanada polisi görünce kızarmış.

Vallahi eskiden biliyordum. Türkiye'ye bir gittim geldim, unuttum.

Neyse işte, elimizde biralar. O bana anlatıyor: Eski kocam zamanında beni nasıl aldatıyormuş...

Şaka şaka. Niye anlatsın ki? Hani anlatsa ben niye dinleyeyim...

Anlattı. Ama ilgimi çekmedi. Sözünü kesmedim, bekledim lafı bitsin.

Aslında ilgimi çekti. Komik geldi. Güldüm. Bayağı güldüm.
Tamam, komik gelmedi. Ama yine de güldüm. 

Neyse işte. Onu geçtik, başka bir şeyi anlatıyor:
Kendisi azıcık ateisttir.

Bilimadamı.
Ve dansçı da aynı zamanda.
Başka karakteristik işler de yapıyor ama konumuz şimdi o değil.

Bir gün benden önceki dans partneriyle yolda yürürlerken kız birden bire durup ona demiş ki:

"Biliyor musun? Tanrı var!"

Bizimki de hemen demiş ki...

"Ne demiş olabilirim sence? Hadi tahmin et, ilginç bir cevap verdim" dedi o anda.

Hm... Düşündüm. Sıradan bir cevap bile bulamadım.

Pür ciddi demiş ki:

"Bunu bana daha önce niye söylemedin?"

Kız öylece kalakalmış, verecek yanıt bulamamış. Ya, ben olsam ben de bulamam.

* * * * *

Iiiiiiinouk'la bir saat kadar önce zorlu bir beyin jimnastiği esnasında muhteşem bir buluş gerçekleştirdik: Jane Blonde adında hayali bir kahraman!

Jane Blonde, bir casus. 

"I'm Blonde. Jane Blonde." diyor.  Sesi ince, tiz.

Gerçek sarışın. Saf yani. Saflıktan öte bir sarışın. Yani nasıl desem, sarışın arkadaşlar alınmasın da... Sarışın işte.

Bööyle dar kırmızı kıyafetler giyiyor. Kıvrımlı vücut hatları, füzeler falan...
Tabancası da elinde. Tehlikeden tehlikeye, maceradan maceraya koşuyor hatun, pek yaman.

Bu harika fikri sinema filmi olarak hayata geçireceğiz. Öyle karar verdik. Ama biraz zamanı var. Ben şimdilik buraya yazıyorum ki aynı fikir kazara başka bir arkadaşın daha aklına gelirse boşuna heveslenmesin: Parçalarım. Önce bize geldi. 

* * * * *

İç ses diyor ki:

"Böyle saçma sapan şeyler yazarak blogun bütün akl-ı selimliğini aldın götürdün, helal olsun. Bundan böyle ne yazarsan yaz kimse seni ciddiye almayacak."

"Ha bir de, Google'da arat bakalım Jane Blonde fikri senden önce başkasının aklına gelmiş mi." diye de ekliyor, kıh kıh gülerek. Neden ki...

Salak

  Gidiyorum, dedi.

            Neden?
  İşte, ne bileyim... dedi.

            Ne oldu söyle, dedim.
  Yok bi' şey.

            Gitme kal, dedim.
  Peki.

  Ben gideyim, dedi sonra yine.
            Niye?
            Rahat değilmiş.

  Gitti.

  Giderken de dedi ki: 

            Kal demeni bekledim. Demedin.

                     ?

                     Bildiğim bütün kelimeler saçma geldiği için salak salak sustum.

 

Konuya uygun resim ararken şu yukardakini buldum. 

Endonezya'da yetişen bir meyve. Adı da SALAK'mış.

 

Aynı ben.

Drunk in Istanbul

Darling,

When you find this letter, I will be far far away from Istanbul.

I know it's quite pointless: I am writing to you while sitting in front of you, in Canada. It is even more pointless to start it highlighting where I am far far from.

It's maybe that I'm enjoying just words, any words... (especially ridiculous ones). Or, maybe that I want to note some memoirs down, which are too close to fade away from my sober mind.

What makes it fun to get drunk in Istanbul? I recall a time I couldn't stop laughing at some not-funny words.

What is funny with "hello", for instance? Nothing. I found it so funny after mixing some wine and vodka. That genius mixture made me the dumbest teenager in Bakırköy. I remember the scene very accurately: My friend Nes in my arm, and Antonio in my other arm.

No, Antonio was not supposed to hold me, because he was a guitar made of rose wood. I was holding him (as a good lover should do), and Nes was holding me (as my best-friend).

*

Darling,

You say you don't remember that night , the 5th of August, 2012.  You remember until your fifth or sixth glass of rakı, you say. 

I'm glad you remember the part my friends taught you how to swear in Turkish. Your understanding of Turkish culture is closer to be complete now.

Nes, Antonio's soprano, my best friend and our guide that day, was dragging me in a rush through Bakırköy streets. It was 10 or 11 years ago. I was a teenager.

We bumped into two guys one of who unfortunately knew me in person. Tuna, was his name. He said "Hello", and it made me laugh. Life was incredibly funny at the time.

I doubt my condition was classified as drunk. I remember everything, every moment, every funny element I saw wherever I looked at. Would I remember this well if I was really drunk?

*  *

I will tell you what happened that night, after your fifth or sixth glass:

A taxi driver saw us crossing the street in front of the Marmara Hotel. He opened the backseat door. You threw yourself in, quite drunkenly, and I did the same thing with myself, tired of high heels. "Sultanahmet'e" (1) I said, wishing I would remember your hotel's street when we enter the old city.

He said he would take the long route to Sultanahmet because of the heavy traffic.

"Why is everyone outside at this time?" I asked, trying to be polite before calling the whole city insomniac nuts.

"Saturday night. People are having fun outside. Just like you." the driver tried to explain.

"EVERY BODY IN THE CITY?"

"25 million population in one city!" he said, matter-of-fact-ly.

Although I was speaking in Turkish with him, he was apparently sure I was an alien he could fool with inflated numbers.

"25 million??" you said in English, surprising me that you'd been actually following our Turkish conversation. "Oh come on! It's 17 million! I googled it. You don't know much about Istanbul?" you continued, very intelligently, to our taxi driver...

"Yes, it is 25 million. I'm a taxi driver for years, you better trust me rather than the internet."

"No, man, no. I don't know what kind of taxi driver you are. Istanbul is 17 million. Yes it is 17 million..." you continued.

"You are drunk sir, I won't argue with you." said the driver, relieving me.

25 million? That part was B.S., yes.

When you are drunk, it doesn't matter where you are. In Istanbul, Antalya, Helsinki, Tokyo, etc. Well, it may matter in Egypt nowadays, or Saudi Arabia maybe, because the police does not appreciate it when you consume alcohol there. I don't know, I just heard on the news.

Have you seen the film Persepolis? Remember the scene they were dumping the wine bottles into the toilette before the police came?

What matters is with whom you drink. While getting drunk. Or, while doing something else stupid (like learning how to swear in Turkish). Or, even while dumping the bottles in the toilette, or studying for university exams.
I was with Nes.

*  *  * 

You have no idea how it feels to get lost in the narrow streets of Sultanahmet at around 2:45am. Because you don't remember.

I had to say "Stop here." to the taxi driver as I noticed he was drawing circles. I was brave enough to find that stupid hotel on foot (on high heels and with a drunken-you, as well).

You were so cute while trying to find the way, insisting to enter every wrong street -sometimes the same streets again and again, annoying the very few people I could find to ask the way... You were still cute when you asked for my permission to have a short nap on the pavement. The only problem was that I was too tired and a bit worried. Istanbul is not the safest city to walk in dark streets at 3am.
But it makes me smile whenever I remember those moments. I am glad I was there. With you.

Nes was hurrying because we would have an exam at 6pm that day. Every Friday evening we had this 3-hour-exam just to practice for the university exam that we would take at the end of the year.

You may ask for which awesome reason I had mixed wine and vodka before such a long exam. It was all because the wine and vodka were given free to us the-17-year-olds, after playing guitar and singing at a cocktail party.

Nes was offered a glass of wine, too. But she gave it to me after two sips. She was a good friend, and allergic to wine.

*  *  *  *


It was 3:30 am when we entered your hotel room.
You threw yourself onto the bed, and forgot your legs on the floor. I took your shoes and pants off, put a cloth on you and answered your blah blah with "Yes my love... Of course... No I have to go home... I will take a taxi... No, you stay here. I will go home... I promised my dad to join them for breakfast... No darling, you don't have pants now, please stay in bed... I took off your pants, don't you remember?... No, don't wear... I can't stay, I should go home... For breakfast... Because I promised my dad... No, I'm not taking the metro. I will call a taxi... You stay here... Of course I love you... No I can't stay... Because..."

My brother called me.
"Ssshht... How are you doing there? Mom and Dad are sleeping. I can come and pick you up with the car." (Sounds like he doesn't want to miss some adventure opportunity)

"Is it your brother? Give me the phone!" you said, "Hey! How are you doing? I'm fine, haha... It was so much fun tonight, haha..."

It is a 3-hour, 180-question exam. Multiple-choice. I count how many questions I've left to answer.. More than 100.
How much time do I have? Less than 1 hour.

I'm sitting at the back of the classroom. My face is burning as if I'm facing a fireplace.
I raise my head to take a deep breath. Nes is in the front. She raises her head, too, at the same time with me; turns her face back to me. Oh my God, I say quietly, "Your face is red!"
"Oh my God!", she replies in the subtitles, as if it is a silent movie, "Your face is red!"
We both giggle (silently).

*  *  *  *  *

"I don't know how many glasses of rakı he had. Do you think he is poisoned?" I asked to my brother, assuming he has a degree in Master of Science in Rakı.

"Did he have beer before or after rakı?"
"No. He got white wine."
"Wine-Raki combination is safe. Did he eat any sweets after drinking?
"Yes, we went to a dessert place. He looks more drunk since then."
"Sugar is not good after alcohol. But it's not poisonous. Do you want me to bring some ayran (2) while coming? It will make him feel more relaxed."
(I think he does have a degree in Master of Science in Rakı)
 
"No, he is about to sleep now. I don't want to wake him up again." I said.
"Ok, see you soon."

I lay in the bed with you until my brother gave me a ring when he arrived the hotel. You turned your back and murmured "You would stay if you loved me." 

"I have to go. I love you" I said, kissed you and closed the door.


Nes is in Germany now.
My brother and Antonio are in Istanbul.
I'm far far away.

We bought a big bottle of EFE rakı one day before our departure. My brother Prof. Rakı recommended the green labelled one - here is a photo of it. He said "This is made of green grapes. Take this one."

Now I will give you some advice (Because every old and experienced person has to give advice after telling a long story):

- Rakı has 45% alcohol. Mix it with water if you are not used to it.
- Prof. Rakı says "No beer with rakı. It's poisonous."
- Doesn't matter whether it is rakı, wine, vodka, etc. etc. Consume such naughty stuff only with good friends, only when you are happy, and only where you are happy.




(1) Sultanahmet'e: To Sultanahmet (Turkish to English translation)
(2) Ayran: A Turkish drink made of plain yoghurt, cold water and salt.