Once more, maybe for the last time; I’m watching the outside from the same place again.
Since the first day I came over 2 years ago. Many things have happened, many things have been learned, seen every time…
On the days when I have to get up at 6 in the morning or to lift others… Despite the sleeplessness all night or the fact that I have been drenched in green and orange pears, I sometimes find the bodies of third parties I have never met. that’s where i felt. Despite all the tiredness, I sometimes wake up dynamically with a one-hour sleep and sometimes I fall into a good sleep…
Perhaps it was the place where I escaped from family life and took a breath. Even in the intense heat of the summer or the crazy cold of the winter, even the trouble of the broken boiler or the cut water was not felt.. All negativity had a happy ending in some way.. We used to bathe with boiling water in the kettle or run around screaming to fight the insects that invaded the house…
This was the place where I learned how people can change from shape to shape with temporary neighborhoods.
I met periodical friendships here.. Sometimes Seçil, sometimes David, sometimes Asya, sometimes Ercan…
The only constant was the host. It shouldn’t have changed either.
Despite the words dripping from the tongues of old Istanbul aunts, the smell of “fake” was a little bit of everything.. The only thing natural was street life. It was Deniz, a glass maker or an alcoholic wine maker, a transvestite or the Kurdish wife who took her 3 children to school, sometimes the grocery store we gossip about, sometimes we borrow money when we are short of money… the soda bottle was the greenest. Then it was another pleasure to watch the screaming apocalypse from your window.. This was Tarlabaşı, yes!
The face of life was hidden in the midnight groans of Deniz.. Who knows what pain was behind every curse he did.. How many different histories were traces of the cats in the street in his lap and caress?. Perhaps it was a sign of escape or approaching the end.
There was no other room between the four walls.. How intimate can you be in a single room? The crazy cleaning that started with screaming like crazy was interrupted by laughter each time.
The midnight hunger is of a different kind.. A little kokoreç, usually a wet hamburger or, if we have money, cheddar doner. It was a joy to fill our stomachs.
When it wasn’t, a piece of frozen meat bought from the market was combined with warm bread from the oven.. His pleasure came from togetherness.. Otherwise, what’s the point of eating it alone?
With a hot noodle soup looking like porridge if it works hard…
Many people hosted that house. Input and output are not clear from the expression. There were a lot of people coming out, but not many friendships were established.. There were few friends, many people around.. Maybe it was the times when we came together for common pleasures and purposes that made us happy.. No, the moments when we were happy were the moments when we recalled the memories, talked about how we got into difficult situations.. Those were the days when we tried to massage each other’s backs in the middle of the night, but the massage was often given to me.. At the end of the day, which lasted until the first light of the morning, we were angry with each other again when the fos we wore on our arm came out.. Then we would laugh. It was nice but…
How many times had the body facing the computer screen been shocked when it turned towards the room?. Those shocks were now being laughed at.. Looking back, a lot has happened. From Gümüşsuyu slope to Taksim, from Taksim to florists in the square, and from Tarlabaşı to Pelesenk Street with garbage containers… After descending softly from Pelesenk Street, to the corner of Cevza Street…
Looking at the green bay windows from the corner and balancing with a single softly curled pillow Observe the open single sash window held. The clearest indication here. Sometimes me, sometimes the host would change roles, look out of this window and wave when we saw each other.. The first time I entered the house, it was the role I had chosen for myself to go to the bay window and watch the outside.
When he saw me at the window, his face would smile and laugh.. He came and said he was the headman of the neighborhood.
I internalized it so much, I embraced it so much that the day I had the keys to the house that belonged to me, I passed out.
From the first moment I landed in Istanbul, I found the safest and most peaceful place to go. it happened. The pleasure of opening the door with my own key is indescribable.
What about now?
Everything, every experience has an end.
It’s ending.. The house is in place, in the past, but the owner of the house will leave, leave that house.. Despite all the memories, all the experiences, all my words. Even if the walls speak a language; but if he only spoke to us.
That was Tarlabaşı. What happens if you don’t go?!
