Tomorrow would be today and today would turn into yesterday: Laundry

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When she had finished folding the laundry her sorrow got even bigger. While she was putting it in the drawers, she also put her sorrows into the drawers of her heart. That’s how she managed with her sorrow. She knew why her chest was burning. She had broken the mountain into pieces, into crumbs. She could not handle a mountain, but she could deal with the pieces in the drawers. She was able to put up with them one by one, but not all together.

Not a pile up, she thought.

She was always in an anxiety train, full of people reminding her of all the mistakes other people made. This train was followed by a homesickness train.

“I’m alone in this foreign land. My parents are not with me, I’m all alone.” By excluding her family of four, she sat on the loneliness throne. She closed all the doors, locked them, refusing to be called or touched. The keys were hers and hers alone, and if she did not let herself out, she would be inside forever. This complicated situation made her challenge her inner circle, and her husband mostly. Why didn’t he call, ask how she was? Was she his wife or a complete stranger? Was she a special person or an ordinary one?

She wasn’t where she thought, because she thought herself to be nowhere. She put herself in a small cell, locked its doors and destroyed the keys. She squeezed herself in, her sorrows occupying more room than herself. At least they were in drawers that could be opened, but Nuray had locked herself in the room between death and life.

She wanted to walk away, but she would find no peace as she would be with herself all the time anyway. Wherever she went, she would find something to complain about, always wanting something else like a little child, giving herself no rest. She wanted to leave herself behind, leave the mountain of laundry behind, free herself from the drawers, her sorrow. It was good to collect her happiness, but collecting sorrow was not good. When it was a small pile it was easy to manage, but not when it became a mountain.

Life was sometimes an iron jacket. She couldn’t move in it. Life went on, she was motionless. She was supposed to fall when she stopped, but she couldn’t even do that. She just froze. She was pulled away from place and time. Kicking away the stool, she hanged herself, eyes bulging.

In her childhood, she’d had to hang out laundry to dry it, but now she could just put it in a dryer and it could easily turn into mountain. The wind would dry it, indeed, but now the wind would not because it became heavier when wet. She just couldn’t carry it. She used to put laundry on her hipbone to carry it back in Konya. Now, the laundry dried in the green house at 69 Turk Street in San Francisco. The wind might be accused of not drying the laundry, but it was her sorrow that got it dirty.

It would be tomorrow again soon. The sorrow would get heavier; there would be more laundry with irremovable stains. The wind would complain to the clothesline and swear at it. Tomorrow would be today and today would turn into yesterday.


Have you ever wanted to meet yourself?

Alcatraz: Meeting Oneself

Cihan was going to a meeting with his own reality. He was in a hurry and anxious. He had given himself a time, facing up to all the time he hadn’t given. He didn’t know what would have happened to him by the end of the day; all he wanted was the day to end. Every day of his life had ended, so this day would eventually end too. He was accounting for the time he had wasted every other day. He had been waiting for today on the train of missing tomorrows, but all tomorrows become today.

He was going to the place where he would become himself. He was going to meet with his soul as his heart had called him and given him one last chance.

“You have to come alone.”

His heart had added this as he always brought somebody with him. Arrogance, jealousy, selfishness were all following him. Cihan was also fed up with them, so he would go alone, determined to rescue himself from himself.

Cihan was climbing a hill with a black bag in his hand. In this bag were his loved ones, ones he didn’t love, his dreams and his desires.

His heart called him again and said: “Don’t bring anyone with you, and don’t call the police. You must come alone. Only you. Got it?”

“Okay, I will, but where?”

“You just walk, the road or the sea will show itself to you.”

“What will the road show me?”

He was walking blindly. He wanted to stop at the start, but walking held his hand and told him to move on. It was his last chance.

He felt cold, sweaty, ashamed. He sat, stood up. It wasn’t easy to become a human. The part of him which was afraid of death wasn’t actually scared of his dead parts. He ignored that part. It was like committing a murder. For those who destroyed their souls, death was deserved.

Cihan became more and more human with every step he took inside himself. Instead of becoming many other things, he again became himself. Not a tree, bird, stone or building, simply a human. He should have left his relentlessness long ago; he had been acting without thinking. He was an ordinary man of ordinary things, so he picked up everything he had and walked to become human.

The Ear Window

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             Nicole was not able to let the right noises in. There was a construction site nearby and all the machines were on. The lawnmower
and the leaf collector were working in the garden. Moreover, there
were sirens: ambulances and fire trucks. As if they were not enough,
there was a party at the neighbor’s house and the music was loud.
Nicole’s shadow ran to the windows to close them. The noises
coming through the ear window marched round the house. With
every closed window, the noise army withdrew a little. Their boot
prints were on the carpets.

They were marching in the chaos.
Nicole was under attack from these noises. She couldn’t live to a
cinema sound system all the time. It was impossible to get used to
the noises coming through her ear windows.

When she had closed all her windows, she became aware of the
noises inside. A baby voice was inside Nicole; her inner child was
crying. It was the millionth time that she had ignored herself, but
her shadow was determined.

“I want to hear myself.”

She became deaf to the dominant voice of her soul and heart.
Listening to her inner voice was sometimes like hearing the
walking of an ant.


Fall in love

“I want to get his attention, only his attention. I want him to look
at me, hear me, think about me and always talk about me. I want
his last words before sleeping to be my name, and in the morning
his first words to be my name too. He would love me so much that
I would define myself in him as crazy and calm. I would be lost,
then found and lost again. I would know my deep and my shallow.
He would recognize me in a million people, distinguish me easily.
Only he would hold my hand. He would be only mine. I would give
him every song and my scent would stay on him. I would see him
falling and rising from my love. When he is exhausted, I would
crown his exhaustion with my love. He would burn with the fire of
love and I would bring him water, but not to extinguish the fire. I
would not want his fire to die.
Lara hadn’t told anybody why she left her master’s unfinished
and went to the U.S.A. She also told no one why she didn’t work
with Taner anymore. She was not able to carry on living in the
same city as the married guy whom she loved. Taner was married
to Eylül already, and Lara was married to a season of sorrow.

When Taner entered his room he saw a white envelope next to
his black leather notebook. There was no name on it. He immediately
tore it and skimmed through it.

When love first came, it wasn’t playing drums in the street of
heart. First, it seemed as a wounded gazelle or a small child who has
lost everything in an earthquake. It stood in the corner in such a naive
way. If nobody touched it, maybe sorrow would have left it there.
Love begins when you notice it. When there is something and that
something is right, the naive child whines. The more you feed that
child, the more he become a part of you. When love wants to leave,
you give everything not to let it go. It is you who is naive, not love. It
is love who stays, but you have already left the place.






Golden Gate Bridge

Cihan had hurried to Golden Gate. He stepped on the gas,
swearing at Edom and hitting the wheel.
“Enough, Edom, get out of my life! Breathe some other place,
live without me. Find a new best friend. You have money, you are
rich. Don’t mess with me!”
He opened the window, swearing loudly, and when he saw a
young same-sex couple walking hand in hand he put himself in
their place. He wanted to push Edom off the bridge—Edom or
himself. All he wanted was to end this suffering.
He parked his car and ran to the bridge but he couldn’t see
anybody on it. There was no one around except a few old homeless
Was it really possible that he was too late? He didn’t want Edom
to die, especially because of him.
“Please, God. Does he hate me enough to leave me with a lifetime
of regret?”
It was 3.32 a.m. when Cihan arrived at the bridge. The wind was
blowing, hitting his face and hurting Cihan. He wished he could
only feel that pain, but the pain inside was so big that even the
wind would be surprised. His heart was hitting him; he became
blue with cold. He saw someone under a brown leather jacket laying
down in the corner by the entrance. A handsome young man
with a cool sports car was sleeping on the ground like a desperate
homeless man.
“What do you want from me?”
Cihan didn’t care about the tears on his cheeks. He surrendered
completely and walked toward the man on the ground.
Edom pulled his jacket from his head. The look in his eyes was
saying both come and go.
“Are you here?” He asked only to confirm what he saw. “Thanks.”
“I’m here.” Cihan bent down in front of Edom. “Why are you
doing this to yourself? Okay, you don’t care about yourself, so why
are you doing this to me?”
Edom said everything without speaking. Cihan got lost in his
silence. Finally he decided to sit down beside Edom, looking directly
at the bridge.
“Are you going to jump from here? Damn, you’ll hit a rock,
you crazy!”
He was trying to cheer Edom up, but ended up feeling like a
clown. Edom was still silent. His heart was beating in an almost
dead body. Cihan put his hood back on his head and leaned over
the handrail. The cold hurt him, but all of a sudden the pain left
his body.
Edom put his head on Cihan’s shoulders. Cihan didn’t get mad;
he was really calm. He would surrender to Edom no matter what
he did. He laid all his weapons down, was surprised by himself.
Could one call it pitying or heroism or fidelity?
He had known the owner of the head on his shoulder for years.
Cihan was sure now that he was deep in curiosity. Edom didn’t
know that; all he knew was that Cihan was holding his hand now.
It was a dark moment so it was still possible to destroy everything,
but it was stupid to deny the truth. Cihan couldn’t stop what was
destined to happen. The future was holding a gun to his head and
saying “Death or knot!” He hadn’t chosen death, so Cihan found
himself knotted.

Cihan was bringing Edom home. He turned on the car lights
and turned off his own light. His world became dark, and San
Francisco was very scary in this world. It was the last call to sin.
Cihan didn’t listen to it anymore. The night got dirty. Cihan was
walking on the hair of life, and life was losing its hair and would
become bald soon.
Cihan felt like he was cleaning paint from his face. It was the
same color as the bridge, connecting him to the bridge, but there
was no way out. He wanted to do something more extreme than
death. He wanted to choke his curiosity. Cihan only said, “Why
not?” The heart could carry most lies, but couldn’t tolerate lying to
itself. The human had two halves. The only thing that could make it
whole was the opposite sex. When he put same sex pieces together,
the entity would be still half.
What would he call himself and his dead body? He couldn’t go
home that way. In his home remained another Cihan, but he wasn’t
the same guy anymore.
He named himself with a black mark.
Edom wasn’t the one to blame. Cihan had surrendered and became
a slave to curiosity. What would happen now? The car was
shaking like wine in an earthquake; he didn’t have enough courage
to keep driving. He parked his car on a parking lot and closed his
eyes. His eyes closed him as well.

Look at my eyes!

Sadaf entered Lara’s room with two cups of coffee.

“I’m wasted, Sadaf. Both Japan and China were too much in one day. Look at my eyes!”

She made her eyes slant.

“Hahaha, Lara! Try as you like, you can’t make yourself look Asian without making those huge eyes smaller. I know the Japanese garden is nice, but what’s up with China Town?”

Lara answered without thinking: “Myself! Do you know, I’m an alien in this city, and so is China Town. But we are both world citizens.”

“Feeling like a stranger makes you feel better? How?”

“Yes, I don’t feel so alone!”

“Right, but there are lots of foreign people living in this city. Look at me, I’m originally Pakistani.”

She sucked her lips into her mouth. She always did this; it was a nervous twitch. Once Lara had thought she did this because she was ashamed of what she had said and thought she probably shouldn’t keep speaking.

Lara pulled Sadaf’s ponytail.

“That’s why I’m staying with you, to feel my difference more.”

Sadaf was used to Lara’s jokes, but still she screamed.

“Oh, don’t!” Sadaf sat beside Lara and prepared to ask her something. “Why do you feel better by being different, foreign and—what did you call it? —a loner?”

“It doesn’t make me feel better, Sadaf, but it makes me more me. Think about it: I came here from overseas. I’m far away from my country, yet close to me. You can’t see what’s very close to your eyes, right?”

Sadaf tried to look as though she understood.

“Can you see a beautiful painting when you put your face against it? It’s like that. Getting away from myself made me closer to me. Never mind, I’m feeling deep and talking nonsense.”

Sadaf felt sorry for Lara, then realized she was late. While Lara was putting the dishes from the night before into the dishwasher, Sadaf prepared to leave the house.

“Don’t be sad, Lara, I’ll pray for you!”

“Thanks,” Lara said and came to the door with the towel in her hand. “Take care”

Lara closed the door. She realized that she hadn’t prayed for a long time, or maybe the time felt longer because she didn’t pray. She had lots of reasons to pray, but she had just given up. She needed to go and apologize by praying.

She put on some music, needing an outside sound or she would have had to listen to her conscience. It was talking to her, but she decided to turn a deaf ear.


Instagram lets users share their photos, and “like” and comment on their friends’. The competition for “likes” encourages creativity in young users, who can use filters and other devices to spruce up their images. And its simplicity – it’s just pictures, right? — comforts parents haunted by the cyber bullying they hear about on Facebook and Twitter.

But Instagram’s simplicity is also deceiving: look more closely, and you find the Rosetta Stone of girl angst: a way for tween and teens to find out what their peers really think of them (Was that comment about my dress a joke or did she mean it?), who likes you (Why wasn’t I included in that picture?), even how many people like them (if you post and get too few likes, you might feel “Installment,” as one young woman calls it). They can obsess over their friendships, monitoring social ups and downs in extreme detail. They can strategically post at high traffic hours when they know peers are killing time between homework assignments. “Likes,” after all, feel like a public, tangible, reassuring statement of a girl’s social status.