The National Film Theatre (NFT) at the BFI Southbank is arguably my favourite cinema theatre in London (see, for example, here (in Turkish)). The venue sits beautifully on the South Bank of the River Thames, directly connected to the city centre via Waterloo Bridge and the nearby favourite Hungerford Bridge. It is the primary venue for the London Film Festival, as well as the BFI (British Film Intitute) Headquarters, the BFI IMax Cinema and is part of the wider South Bank arts complex consisting mainly of the Southbank Centre, Hayward Gallery, the National Theatre. The frontal BFI Southbank cafe opens right into the Jubilee walkway under the Waterloo Bridge and a stroll around there is a great joy, with an occasional stop at the 2nd hand, cheap book stalls located in front of the cinema.
If BFI Southbank is a decent depiction of many of the qualities of London, then it is arguably a prime venue to host films portraying homelands of many other cultures. BFI Southbank usually holds film series of famous filmmakers (recently, Wim Wenders, Coen Brothers), actors, countries, film cultures or genres. 3 major film halls (NFT 1, 2 and 3) screen for large audiences, while the Mediatheque and Gallery cater for a much smaller crowd in the shape of screenings of experimental films or video. More video installations or exhibitions can be visited in the decent gallery, BFI Southbank Gallery, which currently holds a Pierre Bismuth and Michel Gondry exhibition.
One of these special events was the screening of "Of Time and the City", the first-ever documentary by the famous British filmmaker, Terence Davies (1945 - ). The film was screened on 2 November 2008, on a nice, partly-cloudy London Sunday afternoon. After the screening, Terence Davies came up to the stage for a conversation with the head of the BFI and the audience.
"Of Time and the City" is a documentary about Liverpool. It is rather a subjective documentary through the eyes of Terence Davies who was born in the city and lived there until the age of 28 (1973). Davies had never done a documentary before, and this was his first film after being away from the industry for 8 years. This was rather a special commission, in part with the Liverpool '08, the European Capital of Culture, project. In stead of depicting a Liverpool of what most non-UK citizens associate the city with; the Beatles, Liverpoool FC, Liverpool dock-workers, Davies has followed a quite dramatic approach, almost denying the existence of these institutionalised aspects of the city and taking a very personal approach to it.
Majority of the picture consists of archival footage, bought from BBC, Liverpool Council and many other sources. There is very few contemporary footage, a few scenes of city-life of today, shot by Davies. Other than that, Davies's main involvement has been to prepare a working script, cutting through the scenes and installing the soundtrack. It is quite unique in the sense that, a contemporary document on Liverpool, especially given the current Liverpool '08 project make so less use of contemporary images or references to widely-accepted cultural notions of the city, as described above. But, this is precisely what makes the film more interesting.
A strength of the film lies in the poetic nature of it. Terence Davies uses his own voice as the voice-over narration and extensively reads into the images from literature. Homeros, T.S. Eliot, classical music, hymns from church music and his own poetry blend with the recurring black and white, and color images of life in and around Liverpool.
The film begins with a graphically filling shot of an empty theatre hall, drawing its curtains into a grimmy Liverpool scene. Church images, loud hymns and extremely sarcastic narrative of Davies flow in. It is this extreme sarcasm that creates the working tensions and the conflicts of the film. Archival sound from a BBC Radio show from the 1960's, or jokes that Davies makes about his time and his city are not completely graspable for non-UK, or even non-Liverpool audiences. At the Cannes Film Festival, the UK side of the theatre at the film's screening was reportedly giggling while some were puzzled. However, the conversation with Davies after the film at the BFI clarifies many questions.
There are extensive references to religion and Davies' conversion from a devout Catholic into an atheist. As a life-time skeptic, Davies' was challenged further by his father (died when Davies was 7), after whose death, Davies started to indulge in conflicting realities of life. At a very early age, he discovered interest in the same-sex and came out as a young gay man in the mid 1950's, having to wait 12 years (from ages 11 to 23), until homosexuality was no more illegal in the UK (1967). The years 7-11 play a significant role in his development where he was taken the films quite extensively and the 'awakening' to the non-existance of god, and turning an atheist simultaneously with discovering homosexuality seem to be main elements of why Davies chose ballet over Beatles or classical music over hooligan chanting of Liverpool fans.
He is the youngest of 10 children. I don't know about the others in the family but he may as well be the most enthusiastic and entertaining. It is easy to see the fragility in the man when he blushes as he is applauded by the full-house crowd of the giant NFT 1 Theatre, or in the use of gestures, the non-stoppable movements of his hands and arms in excitement when he tells a story from childhood. He told about a funny incident he has recently encountered, in order to give an example of the "northernly humour" that he cherished a lot about the Liverpool culture:
He has recently given a lecture at Harvard. Harvard gave him a jumper with the "Harvard" text over its chest. Davies was wearing this one day when he was back in Liverpool. A street beggar saw him and stopped by him asking:
"Hey mate, do you have some spare change? I am going to go to Yale".
It is much more than to Davies that these funny incidents came across his way. Although not peaceful with his childhood traumas and his sexuality, this is a man, grasping the world, and 'his city' of his first 28 years with full enthusiasm, arms and eyes open wide. And there comes the "Of City and the Time", maybe a slightly difficult piece to get into in the beginning, but a sheer joy of classical music, folks on the hill, decaying housing estates, the Cathedrals and fighting for a place in the Liverpool crowd of 1960's and early 70's.
I suggset the 70-minute long film screened with a 20-minute cut from a Terence Davies interview. It adds so much more to Liverpool and the city, knowing this interesting and remarkable person.
------
Further reviews on the film can be found at the following links:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/movie/124576/of.time.and.the.city
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/film_reviews/article5048582.ece
Monday, November 03, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Locked-up luggages and Spanish punctuality!
George Orwell writes about his days in the Spanish Civil War in his little book called "Fighting in Spain". He was in the front with a (Anti-Stalinist) communist POUM party in Huesca and was defending the party's headquarters in Barcelona. All in all he has fired a few dozens of rifle shots in the winter of 1936 and spring of 1937, hardly caused any casualties, got a bullet through his neck and wittily wrote about as much the accounts of the Spanish Civil War he saw with his British eyes. His comments on the nature of the interactions taking place in Spain are quite sincere and warm-hearted. But it is his sarcastic remarks that make this little book an amuzing take on a serious subject.
Early on in the book, he introduces some key characteristics of Spanish people and it is the "punctuality issue" I want to share. A passage from pg. 13 reads:
"Every foreigner who served in the militia spent his first few weeks in learning to love the Spaniards and in being exasperated by certain of their characteristics. In the front line my own exasperation sometimes reached the pitch of fury. The Spaniards are good at many things, but not at making war. All foreigners alike are apalled by their inefficiency, above all their maddenning unpunctuality. The one Spanish word that no foreigner can avoid learning is mañana - tomorrow (literally, 'the morning'). Whenever it is conceivably possible, the business of today is put off until mañana. This is so notorious that even the Spaniards themselves make jokes about it. In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time. As a general rule things happen too late, but just occassionally - just so that you shan't even be able to depend on their happenning late - they happen too early. A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim of the engineer-driver, it leaves at half-past seven."
For anyone familiar with a Spanish or a Mediterraenan setting, this should be quite telling. Anyone familar with me or some of the stories I have written should also know by now that I push the limits to reach the deadlines on time. This is out of necessity rather while if I miss these deadlines I might have to pay penalties. When I have the appoint my own schedule, of course as a general rule of conveniancy, I happen to be out of tune, too. I would like to share a personal account on the former though, a deadline I had to make. Because this example is from Spain, it may fit with the context.
In the summer of 2005, I went to Spain for 3 weeks for language courses: 1 week in Valencia, 1 in Salamanca and 1 in Sevilla. After the classes ended in Sevilla, I met a friend on my last day in Spain in Madrid. We met early in the morning and I left my luggage at the train station. The locker room at the train station would close down at 8:20 PM (don't ask me why not 8 PM) and my friend was supposed to leave Madrid at 8 PM from a bus station close to the train station. So I thought: "I'll drop her and fetch my luggage from the train station".
As planned, after dropping her at the bus station, I realised to my inconveniancy that the train station was not so close by. I started running under the summer heat and after 10 minutes of non-stop running on the large Madrid boulevards, I made it into the station at exactly 8:20. The security told me they locked the place down! They told me to get permission from the station manager. I was in a dire situation. Same night at 1 AM I had a bus to Valencia, from where I would take a 6:30 AM next morning flight to Berlin, from where I would take a 10 PM flight to Istanbul. I needed my luggage.
I spoke fluent Spanish with high adrenaline and the station manager gave me the permission, but he told me that only the security guys could let me in, and I had to once again convince them! Going back and forth, I was able to win their sympathy, and at 8:24, I was warned by the security:
"But you made it here 4 minutes late!"
"But I was already here at 8:20. You saw me!"
"No, you were late. We will let you this time but you should never forget: Us Spanish, we are extremely punctual, just like the British!"
As you may have guessed, even they laughed at their own comment few seconds later. I would like to dedicate George Orwell's "Fighting in Spain" to these hillarious Spanish train-station security men.
P.S. Needless to say, later on in the evening I visited a hostel I stayed a year ago, and I was too relaxed only to take a taxi to the bus station where my Valencia bus left half an hour before the bus. Although it was only a 10 minute drive, Madrid streets on a Saturday night in midsummer was flocking with people and noone cared if the traffic ran or not. Well, I made it into the bus 1 minute before it left...
Early on in the book, he introduces some key characteristics of Spanish people and it is the "punctuality issue" I want to share. A passage from pg. 13 reads:
"Every foreigner who served in the militia spent his first few weeks in learning to love the Spaniards and in being exasperated by certain of their characteristics. In the front line my own exasperation sometimes reached the pitch of fury. The Spaniards are good at many things, but not at making war. All foreigners alike are apalled by their inefficiency, above all their maddenning unpunctuality. The one Spanish word that no foreigner can avoid learning is mañana - tomorrow (literally, 'the morning'). Whenever it is conceivably possible, the business of today is put off until mañana. This is so notorious that even the Spaniards themselves make jokes about it. In Spain nothing, from a meal to a battle, ever happens at the appointed time. As a general rule things happen too late, but just occassionally - just so that you shan't even be able to depend on their happenning late - they happen too early. A train which is due to leave at eight will normally leave at any time between nine and ten, but perhaps once a week, thanks to some private whim of the engineer-driver, it leaves at half-past seven."
For anyone familiar with a Spanish or a Mediterraenan setting, this should be quite telling. Anyone familar with me or some of the stories I have written should also know by now that I push the limits to reach the deadlines on time. This is out of necessity rather while if I miss these deadlines I might have to pay penalties. When I have the appoint my own schedule, of course as a general rule of conveniancy, I happen to be out of tune, too. I would like to share a personal account on the former though, a deadline I had to make. Because this example is from Spain, it may fit with the context.
In the summer of 2005, I went to Spain for 3 weeks for language courses: 1 week in Valencia, 1 in Salamanca and 1 in Sevilla. After the classes ended in Sevilla, I met a friend on my last day in Spain in Madrid. We met early in the morning and I left my luggage at the train station. The locker room at the train station would close down at 8:20 PM (don't ask me why not 8 PM) and my friend was supposed to leave Madrid at 8 PM from a bus station close to the train station. So I thought: "I'll drop her and fetch my luggage from the train station".
As planned, after dropping her at the bus station, I realised to my inconveniancy that the train station was not so close by. I started running under the summer heat and after 10 minutes of non-stop running on the large Madrid boulevards, I made it into the station at exactly 8:20. The security told me they locked the place down! They told me to get permission from the station manager. I was in a dire situation. Same night at 1 AM I had a bus to Valencia, from where I would take a 6:30 AM next morning flight to Berlin, from where I would take a 10 PM flight to Istanbul. I needed my luggage.
I spoke fluent Spanish with high adrenaline and the station manager gave me the permission, but he told me that only the security guys could let me in, and I had to once again convince them! Going back and forth, I was able to win their sympathy, and at 8:24, I was warned by the security:
"But you made it here 4 minutes late!"
"But I was already here at 8:20. You saw me!"
"No, you were late. We will let you this time but you should never forget: Us Spanish, we are extremely punctual, just like the British!"
As you may have guessed, even they laughed at their own comment few seconds later. I would like to dedicate George Orwell's "Fighting in Spain" to these hillarious Spanish train-station security men.
P.S. Needless to say, later on in the evening I visited a hostel I stayed a year ago, and I was too relaxed only to take a taxi to the bus station where my Valencia bus left half an hour before the bus. Although it was only a 10 minute drive, Madrid streets on a Saturday night in midsummer was flocking with people and noone cared if the traffic ran or not. Well, I made it into the bus 1 minute before it left...
Thursday, October 30, 2008
London love
Last Friday, I was at the Trafalgar Square for the free screening of "London Loves" at the London Film Festival. It was a blissful atmosphere, people sitting on the stairs across the Nelson's Column, watching short films about London from the archives of the British Film Institute (BFI), whilst setting evening reflected through the hands of the Big Ben. Films from as early as 1910's, and themes as the last run of the South Bank tram of London (1950's) added to the special atmosphere I shared with my company.
Today, I had a miserable start to the day. I could not get any work done yesterday and today my hopes were shattered as I realised I lost the power adaptor for my laptop. I went to the school to look for it but it was gone. After dealing with few necessities, I researched for the cheapest option to buy a new one. On eBay I came across a guy who sold them from his shop in London, so I gave him a ring and decided to cycle to his place to buy it from him. And as I bargained I even got a £2 discount.
I had left my bicycle in the school for the last 23 days and thought it would be a good idea to test it anyway. I did not mind the fact that the weather was 6 degrees Celsius at the moment. I got used to cycling in the cold when my spit used to freeze back in Denmark. Once again, marvels of London treated me with a nice cycling experience.
I fell in Love with London once again as I passed over Blackfriars Bridge and looked on both sides of the Thames.
Image by http://www.flickr.com/photos/chrispercival/
The biting cold of the air did not hurt me at all. I fetched my power adaptor and decided to cycle all the way back home although I knew it would take quite long and I was hungry.
I feared London when I went through a totally dark and cold street, enclaved by two gigantic grey housing estates somewhere in Walworth.
Image by http://odiss.deviantart.com
My blood froze as I gazed at "X (couldn't see what it was) Christianity Church, European Headquarters", a factory like building at the other end of the previous street. A comical depiction of commitment.
Main road junctions around south London smelt of burning coal. People ask me if I miss Istanbul. I miss the mild winters of my country, the warming smell of winter labour, burning coal and turd following the wind miles away. The harsh loneliness of candle-lit houses, and a bowl of hot soup.
Image by http://www.flickr.com/photos/albedo
Mahatma Gandhi Industrial Estate by the rail tracks by Herne Hill amused me.
Muhammad No. 1 mosque, squeezed into a white building under the flyover rail tracks with a red-and-white inverted crescent and star flag made me think. Think of prayer. Denial. Betrayal. Freezing weather and warmth of sucking on hot blood...
The world was revolving like the usual in fact. My moments of inspirations fed my veins through constant change in typologies of street layouts, from light to dark and car traffic into dead end streets. At a traffic light at Herne Hill I happened to block a car for 5 seconds before I realised my position. I moved away and the lady driver had a cynical look at me. I was freezing and almost fainting of hunger by that point. The only swear I could come up with at that moment to throw at her came between my teeth rather in a whispering tone, first in Turkish and then in English: "pussywater" I called her.
Image by Madhu Pillai at http://www.virginmedia.com
Somewhere in the distance, the red lights of the tower at Crystal Palace kept shining. I barely made it home without a complete body burnout.
This was my series of "London Loves", quite detached from the Trafalgar Square experience the Friday before, but yet with full of similar passion.
Today, I had a miserable start to the day. I could not get any work done yesterday and today my hopes were shattered as I realised I lost the power adaptor for my laptop. I went to the school to look for it but it was gone. After dealing with few necessities, I researched for the cheapest option to buy a new one. On eBay I came across a guy who sold them from his shop in London, so I gave him a ring and decided to cycle to his place to buy it from him. And as I bargained I even got a £2 discount.
I had left my bicycle in the school for the last 23 days and thought it would be a good idea to test it anyway. I did not mind the fact that the weather was 6 degrees Celsius at the moment. I got used to cycling in the cold when my spit used to freeze back in Denmark. Once again, marvels of London treated me with a nice cycling experience.
I fell in Love with London once again as I passed over Blackfriars Bridge and looked on both sides of the Thames.
Image by http://www.flickr.com/photos/chrispercival/The biting cold of the air did not hurt me at all. I fetched my power adaptor and decided to cycle all the way back home although I knew it would take quite long and I was hungry.
I feared London when I went through a totally dark and cold street, enclaved by two gigantic grey housing estates somewhere in Walworth.
Image by http://odiss.deviantart.comMy blood froze as I gazed at "X (couldn't see what it was) Christianity Church, European Headquarters", a factory like building at the other end of the previous street. A comical depiction of commitment.
Main road junctions around south London smelt of burning coal. People ask me if I miss Istanbul. I miss the mild winters of my country, the warming smell of winter labour, burning coal and turd following the wind miles away. The harsh loneliness of candle-lit houses, and a bowl of hot soup.
Image by http://www.flickr.com/photos/albedoMuhammad No. 1 mosque, squeezed into a white building under the flyover rail tracks with a red-and-white inverted crescent and star flag made me think. Think of prayer. Denial. Betrayal. Freezing weather and warmth of sucking on hot blood...
The world was revolving like the usual in fact. My moments of inspirations fed my veins through constant change in typologies of street layouts, from light to dark and car traffic into dead end streets. At a traffic light at Herne Hill I happened to block a car for 5 seconds before I realised my position. I moved away and the lady driver had a cynical look at me. I was freezing and almost fainting of hunger by that point. The only swear I could come up with at that moment to throw at her came between my teeth rather in a whispering tone, first in Turkish and then in English: "pussywater" I called her.
Image by Madhu Pillai at http://www.virginmedia.comSomewhere in the distance, the red lights of the tower at Crystal Palace kept shining. I barely made it home without a complete body burnout.
This was my series of "London Loves", quite detached from the Trafalgar Square experience the Friday before, but yet with full of similar passion.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
exasperating but entertaining London weather (and Snow in October!)
As we walked out of the house, a brilliant fresh air filled our lungs. My favourite weather: Bright sunshine, clear blue skies with some white touches, and 6-9 degrees temperature that refreshes your brains and shivers your body to life. This was literally a cool setting.
The aim was to get to the Turkish Consulate by 13:30 for me to apply for an extension of my passport. A change of routes, I thought, would be a good idea. Took the train to Battersea Park Station and had a random stroll around the park where I had never been before. The cotton-soft concrete chimneys of the Battersea Power Station shined with a decaying glory under the sun whilst the torn-away walls of the building tried to immerse some vitalising energy. She saw them for the first time from real close. Battersea Park was hosting families with children, and families with a hound of dogs. A small pond there, a tiny botanic garden here, and we found ourselves by the Thames.
Following the river, we crossed over the Chelsea Bridge. It was already 12:00, we'd been traveling and wandering for 1.5 hours and had not eaten. Before fainting, a Lebanese shop around the poshy Sloane Square helped recover. The traffic around Knightsbridge was stuck and after jogging on the wrong street, we ran into the Consulate just around the time. A very Turkish way. It was 13:29. To my surprise, they only accepted applications until 13:00 and 13:30 was the closure time. I got some useful information to check back on Thursday. We sat on the bench to relax, the weather was getting slightly cloudy but still great.
Then the dimmer skies as the sun sets earlier these days. The pages of the books turned brownish and it was the time to head to the riverside again, to cross it over the bridge and have some dinner.
It was almost scary how many men in black suit crossed the London Bridge with us at the same time. It was around 6 PM, and all the City white-collar workers added to the grey of the city but could not destroy the enthralling Thames.
Here is a nice hint: "Fishbar" on Borough High Street just before the London Bridge Station has the best doner in town (maybe even anywhere). The wraps (durum) are well-priced and extremely filling and tasty with the sauce!
As soon as the dinner was over, it was pouring down like it never rained before!! The clear skies had cracked wide open with clouds that seemed to come from nowhere and we were soaking wet from head to feet within 2 minutes! That is London!
I went to see "The Feature" in the London Film Festival at 7 PM by the South Bank. It was a good reiteration of the 'festival air' I had been missing for some time. My humble comments here cannot make justice to this film that reminded of my enthusiast towards Paris - New York avant-garde of the 1960's and the Andy Warhol produced or affected experimental films running for 3 hours with random shots of flying cocks, sex orgies, naked musicians that I relentlessly watched at the Istanbul Film festivals in the high school years. In fact, London strips you off from the amusement of never-to-be-reached retrospective phantasmagorical visuals of earlier decades, and gives you a good mind-fuck already with the financial and urban struggles you have to go through to survive in this city. Maybe the following links can rather tell you more about the film:
http://thehighlights.org/wp/?p=5
http://www.thefeaturethemovie.com/text.html
What I actually want to relate to the subject of this blog is not the 177 minutes I spent in the cinema hall in a constant phase of sleeping and waking, but the experience of the London truth as soon as I left the building!
Yes, incredible to my eyes and exhausted brain, it was snowing! Snow in October in a city that rarely gets any snow at any time during the year! This was truly something remarkable. Especially considering how I had labelled the weather as 'mountain weather' in the morning due to its coldness but clear skies. Now, it was real winter as early as October with some cars even accumulating bits of snow. This was shocking but yet entertaining!..
Once again, London was surprising and this was a really 'cool' day.
The aim was to get to the Turkish Consulate by 13:30 for me to apply for an extension of my passport. A change of routes, I thought, would be a good idea. Took the train to Battersea Park Station and had a random stroll around the park where I had never been before. The cotton-soft concrete chimneys of the Battersea Power Station shined with a decaying glory under the sun whilst the torn-away walls of the building tried to immerse some vitalising energy. She saw them for the first time from real close. Battersea Park was hosting families with children, and families with a hound of dogs. A small pond there, a tiny botanic garden here, and we found ourselves by the Thames.
Following the river, we crossed over the Chelsea Bridge. It was already 12:00, we'd been traveling and wandering for 1.5 hours and had not eaten. Before fainting, a Lebanese shop around the poshy Sloane Square helped recover. The traffic around Knightsbridge was stuck and after jogging on the wrong street, we ran into the Consulate just around the time. A very Turkish way. It was 13:29. To my surprise, they only accepted applications until 13:00 and 13:30 was the closure time. I got some useful information to check back on Thursday. We sat on the bench to relax, the weather was getting slightly cloudy but still great.
Then the dimmer skies as the sun sets earlier these days. The pages of the books turned brownish and it was the time to head to the riverside again, to cross it over the bridge and have some dinner.
It was almost scary how many men in black suit crossed the London Bridge with us at the same time. It was around 6 PM, and all the City white-collar workers added to the grey of the city but could not destroy the enthralling Thames.
Here is a nice hint: "Fishbar" on Borough High Street just before the London Bridge Station has the best doner in town (maybe even anywhere). The wraps (durum) are well-priced and extremely filling and tasty with the sauce!
As soon as the dinner was over, it was pouring down like it never rained before!! The clear skies had cracked wide open with clouds that seemed to come from nowhere and we were soaking wet from head to feet within 2 minutes! That is London!
I went to see "The Feature" in the London Film Festival at 7 PM by the South Bank. It was a good reiteration of the 'festival air' I had been missing for some time. My humble comments here cannot make justice to this film that reminded of my enthusiast towards Paris - New York avant-garde of the 1960's and the Andy Warhol produced or affected experimental films running for 3 hours with random shots of flying cocks, sex orgies, naked musicians that I relentlessly watched at the Istanbul Film festivals in the high school years. In fact, London strips you off from the amusement of never-to-be-reached retrospective phantasmagorical visuals of earlier decades, and gives you a good mind-fuck already with the financial and urban struggles you have to go through to survive in this city. Maybe the following links can rather tell you more about the film:
http://thehighlights.org/wp/?p=5
http://www.thefeaturethemovie.com/text.html
What I actually want to relate to the subject of this blog is not the 177 minutes I spent in the cinema hall in a constant phase of sleeping and waking, but the experience of the London truth as soon as I left the building!
Yes, incredible to my eyes and exhausted brain, it was snowing! Snow in October in a city that rarely gets any snow at any time during the year! This was truly something remarkable. Especially considering how I had labelled the weather as 'mountain weather' in the morning due to its coldness but clear skies. Now, it was real winter as early as October with some cars even accumulating bits of snow. This was shocking but yet entertaining!..
Once again, London was surprising and this was a really 'cool' day.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
tonight
She asked:
"Do you have a cheesy song that you can play?"
We had just driven past a heavy-industry site. Gigantic, short and chubby cylinder chimneys fumed large amounts of grey smoke into the navy-blue skies. I felt that a cold-blooded Pink Floyd song, something like "Welcome to the Machine" could suit the mood, and she asked for a cheesy song. She was driving and I got to choose which tune to play. I put on something and she did not seem to mind it despite the fact that it contained romantic touches.
We had to leave the highway because of road construction. She swerved into the country roads. I could not tell whether she was getting frustrated by this or she was enjoying the shaded valley roads covered by green trees that looked to protect us from the fragile skies that could break on us at anytime. The road map signalled a few small towns where we could hit the highway back but the road signs could not do much help. We had been driving for the last 3 hours already and it seemed as if these side roads would not end. She did not mind. In such times I always came up with uneasy songs that would fit the potentially depressing environment. The soundtrack of a moody guy, as one may describe. She came up with a cheerful request because the world was always going to go on revolving just like the tyres of the car beating the roads into the night. This is how she nicely said 'fuck you' to the world.
I had managed to break the radio of the car the first evening, long before I managed to burst the hose of the water-tank for the engine, burn out the engine and practically break the rest of the car. It was before all of this that I was translating the lyrics of some heartbreaking songs from my language, too. We also talked about me having not broken a single bone my life. I guess I was always too cautious... Or rather too busy breaking softer parts of my body instead. All broken and shattered once, it seemed as if all could be fixed at once with a little help from a cheesy song.
She got cheered up with the song I picked. I decided I did not have to try and fit the 'mood'. After all, we were rolling down the road. The evening outside started to succumb into the fluorescent lights along the way. Now I was behind the steer and the street lamps welcomed us in. We were driving into her city and it felt good.
"Do you have a cheesy song that you can play?"
We had just driven past a heavy-industry site. Gigantic, short and chubby cylinder chimneys fumed large amounts of grey smoke into the navy-blue skies. I felt that a cold-blooded Pink Floyd song, something like "Welcome to the Machine" could suit the mood, and she asked for a cheesy song. She was driving and I got to choose which tune to play. I put on something and she did not seem to mind it despite the fact that it contained romantic touches.
We had to leave the highway because of road construction. She swerved into the country roads. I could not tell whether she was getting frustrated by this or she was enjoying the shaded valley roads covered by green trees that looked to protect us from the fragile skies that could break on us at anytime. The road map signalled a few small towns where we could hit the highway back but the road signs could not do much help. We had been driving for the last 3 hours already and it seemed as if these side roads would not end. She did not mind. In such times I always came up with uneasy songs that would fit the potentially depressing environment. The soundtrack of a moody guy, as one may describe. She came up with a cheerful request because the world was always going to go on revolving just like the tyres of the car beating the roads into the night. This is how she nicely said 'fuck you' to the world.
I had managed to break the radio of the car the first evening, long before I managed to burst the hose of the water-tank for the engine, burn out the engine and practically break the rest of the car. It was before all of this that I was translating the lyrics of some heartbreaking songs from my language, too. We also talked about me having not broken a single bone my life. I guess I was always too cautious... Or rather too busy breaking softer parts of my body instead. All broken and shattered once, it seemed as if all could be fixed at once with a little help from a cheesy song.
She got cheered up with the song I picked. I decided I did not have to try and fit the 'mood'. After all, we were rolling down the road. The evening outside started to succumb into the fluorescent lights along the way. Now I was behind the steer and the street lamps welcomed us in. We were driving into her city and it felt good.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
A daily newsfeed (for a change)
Some recent news that came across my way:
1. When my "Post-1945 Diplomatic History of the World" teacher asked me to pick a final-paper subject for the end of the term, I was growing interest in the events that took place in the 1968-early 1970's era. Diplomatic history suggested that I research some politician from the scene. That was around the same time when I got the chance to see Oliver Stone's (Born on the 4th of July; JFK; Comandante...) "Nixon" movie. Manic Street Preachers had also published their latest album which included the single "The Love of Richard Nixon". At a time when Turkey went through financial crises and had a local Che Guevara in Deniz Gezmis, when Ecevit faced US pressure on banning poppy seeds production, when Vietnam War was taking a twist, and etc.. Richard Nixon's input to US Foreign Policy seemed like a good subject to study. I wrote my longest essay of University years (only recently beaten by Master's Dissertation), touching upon the infamous Watergate Scandal.
Nowadays, a neotechnic, small-scale Watergate appeared at the expense of Republican vice-pres. candidate Palin's e-mail account. Here's the news, without furthet comment:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/oct/08/uselections2008.sarahpalin
2. Long-running friend of mine, Deniz Gozler has started her own blog website (in Turkish) and I ran into a news article about an Iranian car company, Khodro, producing cars 'suitable for female drivers'. I am hoping that the Turkish Government will contribute to this great idea (!) and support companies that introduce suitable cars for 'dolmus drivers'. In fact, if they really want to help the Turkish citizens, they may as well introduce 'roads for non-taksi, non-dolmus drivers' with 2 separate lanes for 'bicycle users' (because at least 1 of those lanes will be abused). Here's the Iranian genius:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7657810.stm
3. Greece has always been a source of envy for young rebellious minds of Turkey. We have spent university years reading about how the Greek students revolted against the government trying to introduce a law that would allow students of private schools (non-university) to be considered as equal-chance candidates on the job market. Since Greek universities are all public (except for these public schools subsituting as universities), this debate can be discussed in the terms of "buying yourself a diploma in the business-market" against a "democratic freedom of market-opportunities for some students who did not choose the 'public' way". Public-private sphere has been contested with greater action and youthful energy in Greece, thanks to powerful workers' sydnicates and organised student groups, whereas in Turkey, talking and yawning dominated action. Nowadays, a new strike is in place in the debate of closing down the Olympic Airlines in a move to privatisation. The following link includes a news-video. Watch for the young French guy, who does not seem to be particularly interested in what some of his revolutionary Sorbonne mates find comradeship in Mediterranean friends:
http://www.euronews.net/en/article/08/10/2008/olympic-strike-paralyses-greek-flights/
1. When my "Post-1945 Diplomatic History of the World" teacher asked me to pick a final-paper subject for the end of the term, I was growing interest in the events that took place in the 1968-early 1970's era. Diplomatic history suggested that I research some politician from the scene. That was around the same time when I got the chance to see Oliver Stone's (Born on the 4th of July; JFK; Comandante...) "Nixon" movie. Manic Street Preachers had also published their latest album which included the single "The Love of Richard Nixon". At a time when Turkey went through financial crises and had a local Che Guevara in Deniz Gezmis, when Ecevit faced US pressure on banning poppy seeds production, when Vietnam War was taking a twist, and etc.. Richard Nixon's input to US Foreign Policy seemed like a good subject to study. I wrote my longest essay of University years (only recently beaten by Master's Dissertation), touching upon the infamous Watergate Scandal.
Nowadays, a neotechnic, small-scale Watergate appeared at the expense of Republican vice-pres. candidate Palin's e-mail account. Here's the news, without furthet comment:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2008/oct/08/uselections2008.sarahpalin
2. Long-running friend of mine, Deniz Gozler has started her own blog website (in Turkish) and I ran into a news article about an Iranian car company, Khodro, producing cars 'suitable for female drivers'. I am hoping that the Turkish Government will contribute to this great idea (!) and support companies that introduce suitable cars for 'dolmus drivers'. In fact, if they really want to help the Turkish citizens, they may as well introduce 'roads for non-taksi, non-dolmus drivers' with 2 separate lanes for 'bicycle users' (because at least 1 of those lanes will be abused). Here's the Iranian genius:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7657810.stm
3. Greece has always been a source of envy for young rebellious minds of Turkey. We have spent university years reading about how the Greek students revolted against the government trying to introduce a law that would allow students of private schools (non-university) to be considered as equal-chance candidates on the job market. Since Greek universities are all public (except for these public schools subsituting as universities), this debate can be discussed in the terms of "buying yourself a diploma in the business-market" against a "democratic freedom of market-opportunities for some students who did not choose the 'public' way". Public-private sphere has been contested with greater action and youthful energy in Greece, thanks to powerful workers' sydnicates and organised student groups, whereas in Turkey, talking and yawning dominated action. Nowadays, a new strike is in place in the debate of closing down the Olympic Airlines in a move to privatisation. The following link includes a news-video. Watch for the young French guy, who does not seem to be particularly interested in what some of his revolutionary Sorbonne mates find comradeship in Mediterranean friends:
http://www.euronews.net/en/article/08/10/2008/olympic-strike-paralyses-greek-flights/
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