THE TALE O’ KROW, RBIRD, BATASI & SAMUT’S
PARTONE
This is either a story or a fairy tale or some bullshit made for you. We could decide how it will go together; could not… Suit not ourselves… The rest is still busy eating its own brain out. Means, you might be reading the last part of the ‘what ever’. I guess the only one to know this, is “who”.
Usually put my typewriter on my balls instead of sitting in front of a desk. Tonight, because I feel ‘too’ diligent, the feeling of the aroma might be absent. On my side, I see nothing to worry about.
Stuck at the desk. This is the live reading of my stuckness. This is the first time, me being writing having a seaview but, also, I might be lying about it. Even if I had the memory to acknowledge this, I have an inclusive management mechanism that can access any spot of that memory, which somehow delegates how, when and for what it is needed, and naturally, if it has not lost itself from being in touch with that memory, perhaps, has a ‘memory’ almost as much as that memory; however I guess it is weaker than you and the rest of the majority have.
Could it have achieved beyond guessing with what it allocated to these “I guess”es’? And even though I realize the leak it causes when he adds the answer ‘who knows…’, I just cannot grab it.
Moreover, if I try to lay it out with a clear heart what I mean by ‘by the sea’, it would be like an astronaut stepping out of the capsule without taking the uniform off and begin researching the atoms of a worm in the yard. How many universes can you describe, when you can’t even handle one… Then “Hey mental!…”Well, you didn’t get it, the next one didn’t get it either, it’s most probaly bullshit, and a social ‘relief’ can be established with the victory to be achieved by making it a subject of ridicule in the circle of friends and plunging it to the bottom. I don’t know in which universe or social environment you are, but I hope it’s not like what I’m describing here for you.
Yet it should be easier. Besides genetically provideds, priority is given to those survivors who have not yet defeated by the contamination of the crap and filth of the world outside; as it is accepted by default… The fresh ones are here, if not yet vowed to keep it fresh, for the voluntary sufferers who have been given no choice but to stay fresh. “Possible, Inspector Bilmemney.” And let it be an excuse that this tale is not written for babies, but for those who still keep their babyness in their souls.
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…How am I going to deal with them, I can’t even describe those I haven’t even had the chance to get to know, and I can’t even talk to them, it’s already impossible. Besides, it’s not collective, it’s a filthy urge to dominate. …Yes, I would like ‘reading beings’ who prefer different consistencies than mine to understand. Yes, it can’t be obvious, maybe you’re already disconnected, but it’s a fact. Those who don’t want to be understood can only write to hide the fact that their lies even exist. ‘This’ is not that ‘form’ you are skimming through. Furthermore, the entity that somehow transmits them to the universe has a problematic ability to ‘pretend’. It stutters sometimes, and when it stutters, all the tricks fall apart. That’s why there are no tricks. So whatever you’re brewing with, brew it well and rewind it if necessary. When you come here again, I hope…
What?
This is Batasi.
…An Anatolian, from the homeland of those who have lived here, of those who live here, and of those who can come from anywhere at any time and leave as many pieces of life here as they wish.
…And A Thracian; where’d been saying “I am here too!” for centuries, extending to the Black Sea and Marmara… Aren’t they one and the same, even if you are not sure whether the water seeping between either separates or unites them…
Not looking bad. Despite this, the impossibility of shaking off the local dust cannot be underestimated.
I’m the one who pours the excavation here and waves the plumb bob to make it an artefact. And my intention is not create the imagination erecting one of those mindlessly nailed public house purposed residences that you see all around in your city; which are more like public housing, mindlessly nailed to the city. I don’t know what will come out yet, maybe I will turn every part of you into a forest, rescue the streams from the streams they are buried under concrete, and I will find peace by getting floured in the mill under the transparent water that flows as if endlessly as it flows white foam on its dark green mossy wooden wheel. I have a very naive and humble intention: I would like to change your environment in your time. This is very easy. Only, it is not in my hands.
In Besiktas.
How would you ask? The writing, tells; reader, reads, and leaves it if it doesn’t grip..
The mill is somewhere at the bottom of Fulya Bayırı Street in your-to-day’s Beşiktaş. There are other mills in the city, but my residence is this one.
Made of timber. Makes noise.
They produce, what they produce has a place to go and mouths to feed, in some crowded families, but their surroundings are secluded. Saying secluded, there are no roads like today. There is a road through the forest but it barely fits a donkey cart. Everywhere is a forest, desolate at night; bears, pigs can come down to the city, deer can rotate; the bird do not sing and you have a right not to get it. If silence preferrable when the idea won’t be delivered as it is expected; unperceptional translation leading the reader to research for the mind from another neighborhood with a different language hence the philosophy and the communication ways in that society by breaking down the rules of the target set of communication laws is also could be… Got tired?
August now (Times when the snow was knee-deep in Vietnam.) And don’t you mind; everything is greener than the times you were there, but the summer heat is summer heat. Well, luckily our populaion is not crowded enough to shit such amounts to fill the streams yet, so, jumping in and getting instants freshness is not yet dirty, taxed or tied related. We can’t crap that much crowded.
The flour is not subject to tax. On the contrary I get paid for the production. Then they turn into bread. Real bread. I don’t do anything else, except “this”. Grasp in the hands, dusts in the eyes, clogs in your throat, mixes with water, ferments, bakes in the oven and fills the bellies. I don’t have so many curiosities: Dreams and food to feed me to write them down. My actual experiences? I’m fine. How about you? Fine. Nothing more to look forward to. One little problem is that I’m a eunuch knowing there’s no cure for that…
to be continued…
