I had a poster hanged over my bed in my old flat in Moabit. It shows one of the issues of a social science journal in Turkey (Doğu Batı - East West). A German friend asked me what it says. “Liebe und die Ost (Love and the East)”. It sounds a little odd to me then, especially in German. When translated, it looses its political meaning there. Aşk does not exactly correspond to love, or Liebe. It's more than these words. One can love her child, her siblings, friends, parents, etc. But aşk can only be felt for a person whom you do not only love but love with a great passion, with an absolute irrationality so that you can sacrifice yourself for the one beloved, etc. I tried to explain it like that. “Warum die Ost denn?” “Hier gibt's eine politische Bedeutung. Diese Zeitschriff hat auch ein Heft, das 'Liebe und die West' heisst. Es geht nicht nur einfach um die Liebe. Andererseits geht es ja einfach um 'die Liebe'.” I think he took this as if I said that the East would love differently than the West. Actually, here was the political meaning.I wrote this to start a post about love one year ago. "I can not write about love. It is always the same story for anyone else." "This is not something you can analyze, you need to write what you have experienced, the dialogues, the feelings... with the latter you're not so good though. Smart girl, but lack of the ability to talk about feelings." said the woman from Botan.
You forget everything... suddenly realized that you have forgotten everything. What you felt, what you smelled, heard... that girl, 14 years old, listening Social Distortion from one headphone of a pair, she forgot everything. As if she was someone else who could at least feel something. The number is 21 now, and I still do not feel anything. Tried though. Frightened... yes, like hell. Ruined a shelter for breathing? Yes, I did it like a professional self-saboteur.
I still can not write about love. It is someone else's business, not my thing. But this sorrow I can only sense from deep-down of my flesh is that I cannot name and pushing me writing. I returned home alone only with memories which does not even make my womb leap up to my mouth. I have tried hard to jog my memory for recalling all the scenes I really lived that night. Nothing particular has come out and fueled my mind and my body so far. Only a couple of little enjoyable pump-ups in my stomach took my breath away for a second when the flashbacks came to my mind. “I can't” I thought, “we can't”. I could easily imagine the future with him, even the time when I would try to get rid of him. “I would lose another man beside whom I can breath. Call it, it's just sex. Always better than meaningless dramas. Call it, it was just sex, even though you are dying to touch him and feel him again, to put your head on his chest, to love him again. You would ruin it again. Make an inappropriate jog about the orgasms you had that night, and thank him for having satisfied you. Then let him go.”
“We would be the worst couple ever”... my irrational rationality... we might have been something...
I had already known that Mardin would be rainy. He knew that too. We knew we would end up in the same bed even if the weather was warm.
"Do we really need to talk about this? Do you think so? Or do we better leave it as it is?", "I can't say anything to you because the woman I am facing with is you" he said. This has sticked in my head, "I am that woman with whom one feels like walking through a minefield". "Why wouldn't you carry on a relationship?" asked he. I could have rather said "I have commitment issues if you read 'relationship' in a conventional sense". But I knew, this would sound like a teenager's rebellion to the social order. I wouldn't because I can't, is always the easy answer. After 26, I do not like to talk about or argue for this issue. "I can breath next to you, but I don't wanna make you a terrain of mine where I could be able to breath once." You wouldn't be enough for me after a while, I could not voice.
"You visit me sometimes, be there, but not mine. we travel through the region, but you do not be there where I spend my other life since you could not keep up with it", I could not say out loud.
"What about you? If I hurt you?", "I know you would run away immediately if I demanded something from you. Well, it's your call. I would take any decision of yours. Do not be such a control freak! You should not name this. Keep me as your friend, as your lover, or do not keep me at all! I can move on with any of them."
We have talked about love once. "I can not sustain that feeling if it turns into a duty." "Love and duty..." "Like role playing. Like being romantic with the natural events. Talking about the obvious beauty of the moon and watching it together without feeling any need to talk about it are different. I would not like to utter an overwhelmed word to the moon. It's shining over there, it's shining pretty well, we both know this fact, why to talk about it as if we discovered the full moon just recently. One may think such things inside, shouldn't express them loudly". "Oh honey, this has nothing to do with love. This would be a cheap copy of the memorized scenes." I would like to say that the wine we have and the room were the free-flowing romantic movie scene already if I was aware of that scene.
NINVE, an Assyrian wine we discovered. Two bottle down, one and a half years down, one lover of each of us down... maybe more than one... even Foucault down, Kurdistan down... slept next to each other several times before... why now?... why that invisible line between us disappeared... "you know why" he said. But, I don't know. Maybe the guilty was the music.
I can't write about love.