Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
from SUNDAY diary (5)
THE SIMPSONS, DEAD SULTANS, TROUBLE IN PARADISE, BITTER TEA, WARM GUTS
my friend refers to Bursa as "Springfield," because like in The Simpsons, it has 2 prominent power plant stacks across the valley. I don't think it's really nuclear though.
at another cafe thinking about that overlooking the city. i'm next to the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, founder and expander of the Ottoman Empire. there's a tall clock tower here too. a couple is fighting in a familiar way. guy says something dumb. girl gets angry. guy tries to laugh it off and touch girl's arm. girl backs away. apologies to follow.
looking out on Altiparmak St. Bursaspor Stadium, the Black Tower ominous, snowy limbs of crooked trees. my food and tea order mechanically and joylessly taken, servers either apathetic or long embittered by tourists and giggling lovers enjoying their romantic spot. there is splat crack of ice melting, dropping on the cobbles, which are dark from the water. i see the couple made up and easy-breezy strolling again.
tea comes, tost comes. yes I spelled that right. they both warm my insides. a man staring at me, maybe distrusting, maybe doesn't know if I'm a critic coming to defame the venue. if he keeps staring at me with that look maybe i will aspire to.
my friend refers to Bursa as "Springfield," because like in The Simpsons, it has 2 prominent power plant stacks across the valley. I don't think it's really nuclear though.
at another cafe thinking about that overlooking the city. i'm next to the tombs of Osman and Orhan Gazi, founder and expander of the Ottoman Empire. there's a tall clock tower here too. a couple is fighting in a familiar way. guy says something dumb. girl gets angry. guy tries to laugh it off and touch girl's arm. girl backs away. apologies to follow.
looking out on Altiparmak St. Bursaspor Stadium, the Black Tower ominous, snowy limbs of crooked trees. my food and tea order mechanically and joylessly taken, servers either apathetic or long embittered by tourists and giggling lovers enjoying their romantic spot. there is splat crack of ice melting, dropping on the cobbles, which are dark from the water. i see the couple made up and easy-breezy strolling again.
tea comes, tost comes. yes I spelled that right. they both warm my insides. a man staring at me, maybe distrusting, maybe doesn't know if I'm a critic coming to defame the venue. if he keeps staring at me with that look maybe i will aspire to.
from SUNDAY diary (4)
STREETS, LOVE, METRIC SYSTEM, DATING, MEAT, ANIMAL RIGHTS
so half of where Bursa revolves in it's free time is Ataturk St. the other half is Altiparmak St. on the former we have a statue of Ataturk himself on his horse, theatres, the famous Iskender kebab houses, the city museum, bars, one sitting above a gorge and live guitarists sadly sing songs about impossible love, a favorite theme here and sometimes I can wonder why. and there you can get big 70 ml beers. this is how an american learns the metric system. there are other sizes but I don't know them -- 70ml is the biggest.
at night I can see my friend Ahmet and discuss the plight. perils, minefields, trapdoors of dating in Turkey. he gives me abstract insight which i'm not sure leads me to any helpful solutions other than to find it felt good just to be discussing girls with another man -- whatever he has to say about it. before that we can eat the popular Kofte, meatballs. my "progressive" San Fran Vegan friends would be appalled -- knowing what they know about the meat industry -- I could be appalled too but I have to suppress that feeling if I want to go to other countries.
the fact is people like eating meat and they don't care in large enough numbers how animals are treated in the process. at least for now. the animal rights activists have a long way to go.
so half of where Bursa revolves in it's free time is Ataturk St. the other half is Altiparmak St. on the former we have a statue of Ataturk himself on his horse, theatres, the famous Iskender kebab houses, the city museum, bars, one sitting above a gorge and live guitarists sadly sing songs about impossible love, a favorite theme here and sometimes I can wonder why. and there you can get big 70 ml beers. this is how an american learns the metric system. there are other sizes but I don't know them -- 70ml is the biggest.
at night I can see my friend Ahmet and discuss the plight. perils, minefields, trapdoors of dating in Turkey. he gives me abstract insight which i'm not sure leads me to any helpful solutions other than to find it felt good just to be discussing girls with another man -- whatever he has to say about it. before that we can eat the popular Kofte, meatballs. my "progressive" San Fran Vegan friends would be appalled -- knowing what they know about the meat industry -- I could be appalled too but I have to suppress that feeling if I want to go to other countries.
the fact is people like eating meat and they don't care in large enough numbers how animals are treated in the process. at least for now. the animal rights activists have a long way to go.
from SUNDAY diary (3)
GHOST, CAESAR, MORE SNOW, MOVING
I'm just a ghost wanderer who means nothing more than some cash or at times a curiosity; most of the time a ghost who can say: "I came, I saw, I kept going."
snow snow snow. now it's relaxed and drifts, the snowflakes are sitting on invisible rocking chairs sleepily falling down to the black grit street to join the water and rise to the sky and fall again as rain or snow or migrate to another city like I've done myself a few times in a few years. but sometimes i'm happy being like precipitation moving around landing in different spots only to rise and move again. I am snow and sometimes ice and sometimes I cause a car accident.
I'm just a ghost wanderer who means nothing more than some cash or at times a curiosity; most of the time a ghost who can say: "I came, I saw, I kept going."
snow snow snow. now it's relaxed and drifts, the snowflakes are sitting on invisible rocking chairs sleepily falling down to the black grit street to join the water and rise to the sky and fall again as rain or snow or migrate to another city like I've done myself a few times in a few years. but sometimes i'm happy being like precipitation moving around landing in different spots only to rise and move again. I am snow and sometimes ice and sometimes I cause a car accident.
from SUNDAY diary (2)
SNOW, WHITE MOSQUES, FROGGER, CURIOUS WAITRESS, BAD COFFEE, GETTING BY, GETTING WARM
Sunday morning on Ataturk Street. Every town has one. from Sehrekustu Station to this Cafe Caffesi, the snow is dumping beautifully -- gloriously! I'm out in it. I walk up the cobbled street from Sehrekustu to Ataturk, a few men out, a photographer, a man calling out something unintelligible pushing a cart of discarded junk -- wires, a broken tennis racket. Coming out under the cover, I follow an off-duty police officer under the snow past the white mosques.
huge flakes drifting down. this is Turkey in its element. 90% of the shops are closed, only a few pillars of kebab meat spinning. the covered markets and bazaar locked up, the minarets cold and snow-covered against a gray wall that is the sky. even Ataturk St. is hard to cross on Sunday morning, and i'm playing an easy level of human Frogger compared to weekdays. no problem i am at the cafe with Turkish rock and snow dancing outside my little window and the lights inside are green, orange and warm. the building is Ottoman-style with its second floor protruding out over the ground floor. the second floor is actually the first floor and the ground floor is a "Z". rattling the coffee cup with my furious pen shaking the table, i get looks from the waitress who attention was alerted when i walked through the door an obvious yabanci (foreigner).
drinking shit instant coffee, which is so popular. don't know why exactly. wondering. oh well, the hell with it. it's warm. and i just need a warm place to write. waiting for Eda. thawing out my head from the cold again. watching boys throw snowballs at shopkeepers just trying to take their tables out on the street. they take no notice. they are men in navy blue jackets and caps, wrinkled eyes, a lifetime of blending into the gritty market streets, black bus fumes grey cobbled walkways, rusted aluminum doors with broken locks. their faces olive and shaded from the dirty shoes of millions passing and going and coming endlessly, scraping their pockets to keep up the struggle, to stretch their lives because what other choice do you have.
but not joylessly. your friends and family and the boy comes around the shops with tea and you talk shop and organize dates for your daughters, hear the gossip, comb the neighbors for pertinent information. stay on top of business, watch your kid's relations. the words are copied on my fingers now. the pen is good and finally warm.
Sunday morning on Ataturk Street. Every town has one. from Sehrekustu Station to this Cafe Caffesi, the snow is dumping beautifully -- gloriously! I'm out in it. I walk up the cobbled street from Sehrekustu to Ataturk, a few men out, a photographer, a man calling out something unintelligible pushing a cart of discarded junk -- wires, a broken tennis racket. Coming out under the cover, I follow an off-duty police officer under the snow past the white mosques.
huge flakes drifting down. this is Turkey in its element. 90% of the shops are closed, only a few pillars of kebab meat spinning. the covered markets and bazaar locked up, the minarets cold and snow-covered against a gray wall that is the sky. even Ataturk St. is hard to cross on Sunday morning, and i'm playing an easy level of human Frogger compared to weekdays. no problem i am at the cafe with Turkish rock and snow dancing outside my little window and the lights inside are green, orange and warm. the building is Ottoman-style with its second floor protruding out over the ground floor. the second floor is actually the first floor and the ground floor is a "Z". rattling the coffee cup with my furious pen shaking the table, i get looks from the waitress who attention was alerted when i walked through the door an obvious yabanci (foreigner).
drinking shit instant coffee, which is so popular. don't know why exactly. wondering. oh well, the hell with it. it's warm. and i just need a warm place to write. waiting for Eda. thawing out my head from the cold again. watching boys throw snowballs at shopkeepers just trying to take their tables out on the street. they take no notice. they are men in navy blue jackets and caps, wrinkled eyes, a lifetime of blending into the gritty market streets, black bus fumes grey cobbled walkways, rusted aluminum doors with broken locks. their faces olive and shaded from the dirty shoes of millions passing and going and coming endlessly, scraping their pockets to keep up the struggle, to stretch their lives because what other choice do you have.
but not joylessly. your friends and family and the boy comes around the shops with tea and you talk shop and organize dates for your daughters, hear the gossip, comb the neighbors for pertinent information. stay on top of business, watch your kid's relations. the words are copied on my fingers now. the pen is good and finally warm.
from SUNDAY diary (1)
PLATFORM, METRO, SHAPES, PASSENGERS, VIBRATOR, FUNK SHOES
now at Nilufer station -- wind cleansing the platform, the new snow covers the mountains, the swish of cars on the wet highways on either side of me -- the green Bursaray slides away and I'm waiting for the roar of another. the screech and squeal of brakes and beeps and electric robot sounds; bump and bling tone of the female intercom; and the train dives in and out of the ground into the tunnels like a dolphin -- passing through triangles of hills, blocks of homes, snowy spikes and domes of mosques -- Uludag mountain lost in the morning mist.
people on the metro are framed in the yellow handle bars -- men with strong faces, rock hard and a steady gaze with a thick blanket of whiskers and burly moustache. strong-faced girls, but attractive.. and i imagine these people ruling the world like they once did. they're dressed in browns, greys, greens, blacks. dark dreary coats.
swiftly past the pharmacies, splitting through the highway, an ax through a hair; banks, restaurants, Tuborg signs, Efes signs, mechanics, pet stores. good bye Nilufer station, Acemler, Pasa Ciftili, Kultur Park, Osmangazi. wave after wave of homes crawling up the mountain, like a race of real estate to the top -- then down into the dark tunnel again, my ears are thawing out but my head still stings because I forgot my hat. my leg is sensitive to my phone. sometimes my brain thinks my leg feels the vibration, but it's not. my shoes are blue; ever since I began listening to Jamiroquai I understand the importance of wearing funk shoes because they can literally lift you over the melancholic drudgery of the rat race into more of a soul-satisfying stratosphere.
now at Nilufer station -- wind cleansing the platform, the new snow covers the mountains, the swish of cars on the wet highways on either side of me -- the green Bursaray slides away and I'm waiting for the roar of another. the screech and squeal of brakes and beeps and electric robot sounds; bump and bling tone of the female intercom; and the train dives in and out of the ground into the tunnels like a dolphin -- passing through triangles of hills, blocks of homes, snowy spikes and domes of mosques -- Uludag mountain lost in the morning mist.
people on the metro are framed in the yellow handle bars -- men with strong faces, rock hard and a steady gaze with a thick blanket of whiskers and burly moustache. strong-faced girls, but attractive.. and i imagine these people ruling the world like they once did. they're dressed in browns, greys, greens, blacks. dark dreary coats.
swiftly past the pharmacies, splitting through the highway, an ax through a hair; banks, restaurants, Tuborg signs, Efes signs, mechanics, pet stores. good bye Nilufer station, Acemler, Pasa Ciftili, Kultur Park, Osmangazi. wave after wave of homes crawling up the mountain, like a race of real estate to the top -- then down into the dark tunnel again, my ears are thawing out but my head still stings because I forgot my hat. my leg is sensitive to my phone. sometimes my brain thinks my leg feels the vibration, but it's not. my shoes are blue; ever since I began listening to Jamiroquai I understand the importance of wearing funk shoes because they can literally lift you over the melancholic drudgery of the rat race into more of a soul-satisfying stratosphere.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
from SATURDAY diary (3)
BALCONIES, CHATTING, THE BLACK TOWER, TEXAS, TRANSSEXUALS, EUROPEAN UNION...
Turks emphasize the importance of balconies and open places to chat over tea or Nescafe. in general most apartments have a balcony and half of them have a small hearth where people can barbecue their kebab. more often than not they serve as a shelf for a a flower vase. the strangest building among the mosques the ottoman style homes, hamam domes, Zafer Plaza with it's Vegas style entrance, most be the Black Tower. South of central bursa, near the Terminal, stands alone and peculiar a black high-rise apartment building, and no other building like it. it stand against a mountainous backdrop as if space and time folded over some ordinary American city building and transported it to Bursa.
Texas is a state in the USA. It's also a word spray-painted as graffiti around the city. it refers to a gang of Bursa football fanatics. They supposedly chose the name because tough people come from Texas. They are well-known for extreme rioting at football games, vandalism, fighting, etc. They probably joined the Association of Tradesmen for Bursaspor (football team) to threaten and prevent a planned demonstration in August by an organization for the rights of homosexuals and transsexuals. The police ordered the cancellation of the protest due to concerns for "public safety" -- was is in order to protect its citizen from harm or from homosexuals? The city has since tried to close down the organization known as Rainbow. So far they have been unsuccessful, probably due to the watchful EU and Turkey's bid to join it.
Turks emphasize the importance of balconies and open places to chat over tea or Nescafe. in general most apartments have a balcony and half of them have a small hearth where people can barbecue their kebab. more often than not they serve as a shelf for a a flower vase. the strangest building among the mosques the ottoman style homes, hamam domes, Zafer Plaza with it's Vegas style entrance, most be the Black Tower. South of central bursa, near the Terminal, stands alone and peculiar a black high-rise apartment building, and no other building like it. it stand against a mountainous backdrop as if space and time folded over some ordinary American city building and transported it to Bursa.
Texas is a state in the USA. It's also a word spray-painted as graffiti around the city. it refers to a gang of Bursa football fanatics. They supposedly chose the name because tough people come from Texas. They are well-known for extreme rioting at football games, vandalism, fighting, etc. They probably joined the Association of Tradesmen for Bursaspor (football team) to threaten and prevent a planned demonstration in August by an organization for the rights of homosexuals and transsexuals. The police ordered the cancellation of the protest due to concerns for "public safety" -- was is in order to protect its citizen from harm or from homosexuals? The city has since tried to close down the organization known as Rainbow. So far they have been unsuccessful, probably due to the watchful EU and Turkey's bid to join it.
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