Category Archives: { . . . }

it is a record year for readiness. we are told to brace for golden light, for fire-darting steeds. there will be a wonderful celebration. it will be thrown out there, or thrown for us, even, knowing we will be there, waiting and ready. and so we are ready, and we wait. we get comfortable, until we reveal it all: a reflection of ourselves, or people’s understanding of our difference. we are used to it—we have waited frequently, with no qualms and no regrets.

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hüzün and sevinç come together at a fork in the road. we pause and hesitate to commit. we feel torn between the two. autumn is upon us; leaves are falling, petals have dried, a cold wind seeps under an auspicious sun. we realise we do not have to choose, and we need not always wait.

i couldn’t think of a better place to say these things. i sat down by the edge of the bed, and i folded my arms and unfolded them. i placed my hands on my knees and looked at a bird on the wall—a bird printed on a yellowed tin plaque which was not old at all. i didn’t need to have proper posture at that moment, but i figured a serious stance might help my delivery.

(and i had to wait.)

i waited, because words floated inside but failed to manifest. i could hear perfectly formed sentences resonate deep inside my skull, yet i knew it would take hours before i could voice them. “please read my mind,” i’d implore tragically to myself, but even that could not be revealed.

i lifted my hands slightly to remind me of them, and i saw my fingers cast shadows on my thighs. the lines were not burns, but for a moment i thought they would never disappear. the shadows ran through my legs and to the tip of my toes until i was safely anchored to the ground. the floor had always seemed to shine at that spot; that’s how a routine of rousing and sleeping left a mark.

i couldn’t think of a better place to say these things, but i couldn’t find a way to say them. when i finally sensed the words moving towards my lips, i no longer knew where my hands were, and i could hear your breath rising and falling with such ease and calm that i could never disturb it with my voice.

i always worry about discomfort when i am not at home. i worry about being improperly dressed, i worry about missing or forgetting something, i worry about the heat and i worry about the cold; i worry because that is what i do, and i worry until i stop worrying.

i do not really want to know how it goes, how it went, or where it will go.

these are the last days of summer in my city that i will leave, so that i may catch a little bit more of summer in my city to which i will return.

L’exposition présente les œuvres récentes de Meryem Yildiz après un séjour de près de deux ans à Istanbul. Les photographies aux tons de blanc et de gris s’éloignent de ses diptyques classiques et témoignent de l’effacement feutré qui accompagne souvent les longs retraits.

L’exposition a lieu du 25 août au 13 septembre au troquet Le cep et le houblon, situé au 2280 Bélanger à Montréal.

Vernissage : jeudi 28 août, de 17 h à 21 h. 

Événement Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/events/746672488727031/

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The exhibit features recent works by Meryem Yildiz following almost two years living abroad in Istanbul. The photographs, in shades of white and grey, are a departure from her signature diptychs and represent the quiet layers of effacement that often accompany displacement.

The exhibit is held from August 25th to September 13th at Le cep et le houblon, 2280 Bélanger, Montreal.

Opening: Thursday, August 28th, 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. 

Facebook Event: https://www.facebook.com/events/746672488727031/

they kiss each other like they they will never see each other again, only they will, and they will wonder if they should kiss again.

during the day, stars cross behind blue skies. we are in the second half. the air—artificial, flowing out of an oversized pipe from the ceiling—blows on my right arm in swift, staggering breaths. we are either too cold or too hot; we make sense of our comfort with the sting of extremes.

i look at a young man sitting outside, on the other side of the glass. smaller pipes breathe on him, ones full of soot and combustion. he is pale and curious. he reads a book with one eye and drinks coffee in short sips, resting his cup on the table next to his phone. he doesn’t belong there, but that’s how he fits in the crowd: conspicuously, with careful deliberation.

the young man will meet someone someday—a passerby, a stranger in the hallway, a woman, perhaps; a half-turkish woman, even. he will tell this someone, the woman, that there was a time when he lived in istanbul. that will please her. there will be a short exchange about the seas or the seasons, and she will desperately try to remember the colour yellow, but it will only come back to her when the moment has gone, when she finds herself sitting in a café, looking at a pale young man.

the room is constantly filled with light yet my skin darkens, my eyes adjust. i follow a quiet rhythm that mirrors the waves, or the wind on the waves. begonias cast fuchsia shadows against white walls. i do not have anything to say. there is no noise and no one to block the view, but i know i will see you soon.

drinking black coffee

i drink black coffee. i never specify that it is an americano, but it usually is, unless it is my morning coffee, in which case it is an aeropressed coffee. it is unlikely that i am drinking my morning coffee though, as i rarely write when i drink that particular coffee—my mind is mostly in a fog, and it can only be lifted once the coffee has been absorbed.

breaking a nail

i break a nail. i keep my nails long and pointed, and though they are strong and seldom brittle, i break one every now and then, usually while doing laundry. when i break a nail, as i did today while flipping over wet clothes in a red basket, i make a note of it because i can feel it. the broken nail is perceptible and unavoidable, most notably when i pick up my pen.

inking paper

i blacken pages. i write about turning blank pages into a mess of sentences and trading one emptiness for another, as i enjoy seeing white lines morph into something dark, no matter how irrelevant the words. the blackening of pages is a process of deliverance, one that is further accelerated upon disclosure. three more words. two more lines. this entire paragraph stained a quarter of a page, and i may have just become a little lighter.

observing through windows or doors

i never have my back against the door nor the windows—i feel hemmed in and anxious if i cannot see what is happening in front of me. i need to observe what is going on outside, but also inside and in the doorway. i am invested in the ins and the outs of the stretch of street and room i temporarily call my own. most of what i reveal unfolds before my eyes, and from these moments, i conjure more moments. it is always easier when i can see what lies ahead.

time

because every time i pick up my pen, it is no longer the moment when i last picked it up, and how strange and disquieting that is.

and it goes on, whether or not we participate in it.

the car stops in front of the door and the people in the car look at the woman inside.

the woman sits in front of a black coffee and wishes she was just a little less than what she is now.

coffee, wall, door, sidewalk, car, noise, saturday, meat (not meat).

the car drives away.

ashes float and land on the table but they are not hers. if she still smoked she would keep the cigarette near her like an ally and let the ashes fall to the ground where they belong.

she misses being treated poorly sometimes. that is why she is constantly looking for his faults.